Babylon Berlin - Summer Cases
by cbstevp
Summary: Based on Babylon Berlin, a noir detective drama set in Berlin during the Weimar Republic. The story follows Detective Gereon Rath as he tries to solve crime in a tense political atmosphere. Based on the German TV show of the same name. This story takes place in the summer of 1929, following the imagined events between seasons 2 and 3 of the TV show.
1. Chapter 1

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 1**

_This is an attempt to fill in the gaps between season 2 and 3 of the TV show Babylon Berlin. Although I have read some of the books this show is based on, I will not be following the characterizations and plots of the books. Hopefully, dear readers, you will have watched the show before you read this. _

_As we begin, it is late May 1929. Germany is a democracy but the forces of Communism and Nationalism fight to change this state. Our heroes, Berlin Police Criminal Detective Gereon Rath and Criminal Assistant Charlotte Ritter, find themselves at the center of forces that are trying to rip Germany's fragile democracy apart. At the same time their personal lives are imploding as secrets are revealed and feelings exposed. The story picks up with both Gereon and Charlotte in the hospital after the incident with the Sorokin's gold train._

_The story will proceed from different viewpoints in each chapter. As always, this does not belong to me, but to the author of the books and the show's creators. By the way, reviews are nice, the good, the bad and the ugly. Enjoy._

* * *

**Charlotte**

All the news came as she lay in bed in the hospital. Gereon shot, but alive. Bruno blown up, dead. The train stopped, but the Sorokin's gold inside was fake, coal bars painted gold. Later she and Gereon surmised that the tanker car carrying the fake gold was really made of gold. But now it was gone, back to Russia and the Communists could do whatever the hell they liked with it as far as Charlotte was concerned. That damn train had almost cost her and murder squad Detective Gereon Rath their lives, twice over.

She had mixed feelings about vice squad Detective Sargent Bruno Wolter's death. He had helped her, getting her a clean criminal conduct sheet so she could apply to be a criminal assistant in the murder squad. But he had asked for something and she had paid the price. Charlotte was a part-time prostitute at the Moka Efti nightclub, but she was not registered with the police, which was a crime. Bruno held that over her head so she had let him have his way with her, several times, and she had even spied on Gereon for him. But later he was kind when her mother had died. Bruno had paid for the funeral and never asked for anything in return.

Then he killed Criminal Assistant Stephan Janicke and everything changed. Stephan was sweet on Charlotte and had helped her get a position as a steno/typist at police headquarters. But he was an internal investigator for August Benda, the political police councilor. Stephan was spying on Bruno and Bruno's nationalist pals in the Black Reichswher. He wrote everything in a notebook, which Gereon had found in Bruno's home after Stephan was shot dead.

She couldn't believe Bruno had done that, didn't want to believe. But then he had tried to kill her and Gereon, forcing their car off the road into a cold lake.

The horror of those few minutes would live with her the rest of her life. Trapped in the car as it filled with water, Gereon trying to break her free, trying to give her air to breathe…and failing, screaming as she died. She swallowed water and darkness came to her eyes and long she drifted in blackness.

Then…lips…on her lips…forcing her…to life!

The water came out and he held her tight, Gereon, soaking wet, holding her by the lakeside. Later, as he carried her in his arms down the road, she knew she was in love with him.

That was two days ago. Reinhold Graf, her crossdressing friend of the Berlin night life and the photographer for the police, came to the hospital and told her what had happened to the train. All she cared about was that Gereon was still alive.

"Where is he?" she asked as she put on her shoes while sitting on the hospital bed.

"Police clinic in Berlin."

"Is it bad?"

"Two bullets, both flesh wounds in the shoulders. He will live."

"Good. Let's go." She grabbed some flowers someone had put in a vase by her bed and headed to the door, but Graf didn't move. She saw the look on his face. "What else happened?"

"August Benda, the police councilor….is dead."

That shook her. "What? How?"

"Looks like a bomb in his house."

Charlotte felt a cold chill run up her spine. "Greta…my friend Greta works for him as a maid."

"Only the councilor and his daughter were killed."

"God. His daughter?"

"Yes. A child. Terrible. I…I took the pictures…it was…" But he could not say the words.

"Oh, Reinhold…that must have been awful."

"Yes. Gennat is on the case. He said he needs to talk to you."

That was a surprise. "Me? Why?"

"Your friend…the maid…"

"Greta."

"Yes, Greta Overbeck. She may be a suspect."

"What?"

"They found her at the scene, in shock, babbling about how it was all her fault."

"Impossible."

"Gennat asked the wife how she came to work there. She told him Stephan recommended her to her husband. Gennat asked around if anyone else knew her. Sorry, but I told him you and Greta were friends."

"It's okay. Greta…I can't believe she is involved in this."

"We must go. Gennat…"

"No. First to see Gereon."

"Charlotte…I know you have your heart set on him."

"What?" She felt her cheeks burning as he said this.

He smiled. "You can't fool me."

She sighed. "No, I suppose not. Look, I know he has a wife and son."

"Yes. That is true. And?"

She felt deflated. "And nothing. Come. I can at least see him and give him these damn flowers."

"You know, I brought those damn flowers the first day you were here."

"Oh! Sorry. Thank you so much. I shouldn't…"

"No, it's fine. Give them to him."

"Good. Let's go."

But it was not to be. She came to the hospital, flowers in hand…and saw them, the wife and son, greeting Gereon with hugs and smiles as he left the hospital. Charlotte sighed, turned around, and left. She found Reinhold waiting by the car he had borrowed from the police garage.

"So?" he asked. "That was fast."

"He's gone already."

"Ah, well, you'll see him at work. Come. Gennat will have my head if we are any later."

Detective Lieutenant Ernst Gennat was called the Buddha by the members of the police department. Known for his rotund belly, love of cakes and sweets, and his high success rate at solving murders, Gennat now ran one of the most efficient murder squads in all Germany, if not all of Europe. His methods were cutting edge and Charlotte hoped to learn all she could from him so she could one day be a police detective in the murder squad. The first woman detective in the murder squad.

But now she sat across his desk from him like a suspect. Thankfully, Gereon was there as well, one arm in a sling, an injury from his efforts to stop the Sorokin train. She was surprised to see him as was he to see her.

"Charlotte…I thought…why aren't you in the hospital?" he asked, worry in his tone.

"Herr Gennat asked for me," she said. "How are you?"

"Sore," he told her. "And you?"

But then Gennat saw them in the squad room and told them to come into his office where they sat down at his desk.

"So…Bruno Wolter is dead," Gennat said to begin, his tone solemn. His ever present thick, smoldering cigar was in his right hand.

"Yes," Gereon replied. "Blown up with a tanker car on the train."

"A tragedy," Gennat said. "But given his corruption, his murder of one of our own, his attempt to kill you two, and his ties to the Black Reichswher, not someone who will be missed."

"His wife… I worry about her. Now that…, " Gereon began, but then faltered.

"She will get his pension," Gennat said, knowing what Gereon was driving at. "We would not put a widow of one of own, no matter how odious he was, out on the street."

"Good. She is…was…a friend."

"I spoke with her this morning," Gennat said. "She is in shock, naturally. Finding it hard to believe he did all these terrible things. And she worried about you, Herr Rath. She said you and Bruno had a terrible fight in their home. She thought Bruno wanted to kill you. What happened there?"

Gereon glanced at Charlotte and back to Gennat. "Yes. We fought. I was…I was looking for Charlotte, who had disappeared. I thought…I thought Bruno had killed Stephan and now he had killed Charlotte."

God, he fought with Bruno for me! Charlotte thought. She knew he had been looking for her but did not know this detail.

Gennat turned to her. "So…where were you?"

"Looking for information about Stephan's murder in his…"

His face turned into a scowl. "That is not your job, Fraulein…Fraulein…"

"Ritter."

"Ritter. You are a steno/typist, not a detective or even an assistant detective!"

Charlotte was struck speechless by his sudden anger, but Gereon came to her rescue.

"Sorry, it's my fault," Gereon said. "I found Stephan's notebook in Wolter's home. But it was written in shorthand. So I asked Fraulein Ritter to decipher it. That is how we found out the train was going to be robbed."

"Well, then all turned out for the best," said Gennat, calming down. "I expect a report on all this, Herr Rath."

"Of course, sir."

"Good. Now to more tragic business. Political Councilor August Benda's murder."

"I will take the case," Gereon said right away.

"No. You were too close to him," Gennat answered. "And you need to wrap up this train incident. I have been asked by the police president to handle this personally." His eyes turned to Charlotte. "We have a suspect, Greta Overbeck. Your friend, Herr Graf tells me."

"Yes," said Charlotte with a sinking heart. "It can't be true, sir. I know her. She is kind and gentle. Not a murderer, not a bomber."

"I believe you, Fraulein Ritter," Gennat replied. "But somehow a bomb was planted in Herr Benda's desk at home and now he and his child are dead."

Gereon spoke up. "Fraulein Overbeck could not have made this bomb."

"Agreed," said Gennat. "Someone with great skill did. A former member of the army, for instance. Someone who has handled explosives and has mechanical skill."

"That is not Greta," Charlotte told them.

"Do you know of any associates she has?" Gennat asked her.

"No…wait. She was seeing a guy."

"His name?"

"Ah…Fritz…sorry. That's all she told me. I never met him."

"So, I am off to question her," Gennat said as he stood. "Thank you for your insight, Fraulein Ritter."

They left his office with him and then walked across the busy murder squad room after saying goodbye. Several members came up to Gereon and shook his hand. Almost all the comments were about Bruno and how he had murdered Stephan and how Gereon had done a good job getting his killer. They also had good words to say about Gereon's partners Henning and Czerwinski, who had helped him stop the train, and they took it all in with pride.

Gereon nodded to his office and she followed him inside and they sat opposite each other at his desk. Gereon opened his cigarette case and offered her one and helped her light it and then lit his own. "So…all better?" he asked as they smoked.

"Yes. Thanks to you."

He smiled and she felt her heart skip a beat. "Of course."

"Gereon…I just want to say…thank you."

"Not at all." They shared a knowing look, one for people who have come close to death but have cheated it for now. "Now to business. You still haven't told me what happened to you."

"I…"

"But I can guess," he said, cutting her off. "We had some unexpected guests at the train."

"Oh…who?"

"The Armenian and his men. He is the owner of the Moka Efti nightclub. Involved in some shady businesses as well."

"I know who you mean," she said quietly.

"Some of those we arrested have spoken. They knew about the train and wanted the gold as well. How did they know where the train would be?" His tone was accusing. Did he know she worked there, that she was a prostitute at the club? Maybe he thought she told them about the gold so she could get a share! She had to tell him the truth, quickly.

"God. I'm sorry. They captured me and held me…"

He was instantly angry. "What? Who? Where?"

"His men. They took me to Moka Efti, held me in a freezer for a whole day."

"We were there looking for you. Me and Bruno," he said, frustrated. "Why did they take you?"

"They saw me at the Sorokin's train in the train yard, asking questions. One of the railway workers is part of the Armenian's gang. Thought I knew something about the gold. I had to tell them what I found in Stephan's notebook! They were going to kill me!"

"It's okay…all is okay," he said in soothing tones. He came around his desk and looked like he was about to hug her, but offices in the murder squad had glass walls that all outside could see through. He sat on the edge of the desk next to her.

"Did they hurt you?" Gereon asked quietly, his voice tender, not angry.

"No. They scared me. And it was so cold. I didn't even know what they were talking about until I remembered I had Stephan's notebook in my coat pocket and began to read it. Once I told them about the train and the planned robbery they let me go."

"Why didn't you tell me after you got away?"

"They threatened my sister! She was eating dessert with him when they released me. She had not a clue why she was there, but I knew. To keep me silent."

"Bastards," he cursed, his anger rising again. "I'm sorry I involved you."

That shook her. "What? No, I asked for this. I want to be a criminal assistant."

"Well, good. So, now we have to write a report for Gennat."

"Do we have to say what happened to me?" She was worried if the police knew she told a gang of criminals such information she would never be allowed to join them.

He thought for a moment and then took a puff on his cigarette and put it out in an ashtray on his desk. "No. Let us just say they showed up and no one knows how they got there."

She smiled, put out her cigarette in the ashtray. "I will get my pencil and pad."

He grinned. "Good. Let's get to work."

* * *

**Greta**

The interrogation room was on the second floor of the police headquarters. Greta Overbeck sat there now, alone, but not alone, with all the horrors of what she had done flooding her mind. They said her employer August Benda was dead…and so was his daughter Margot.

The explosion had been so terrible. Never had she heard anything so loud in all her life. Greta had been on the street rushing home to warn Herr Benda when it happened. It had thrown her through the air as debris rained down around her. Greta could not believe it, had sat there stunned as the screams came from the house, was still there when the police and fire department arrived, and then she remembered nothing more until she was in a cell in a nearby police station.

No, she remembered one more thing…Fritz…at the train station, alive, not dead, a Nazi, not a Communist. Protesting the mayor of Berlin for something. Shouting with others like him. All in their brown uniforms, the SA. If one lived in Berlin one could not help but know of the street wars between the Nazis and Communists. Stories filled the newspapers of their doings from time to time.

She thought Fritz had died, killed by….

The door opened. A short fat balding man in a rumpled suit came in, accompanied by a young blond woman with a steno machine. He sat across from her while the stenographer set her machine up and sat down. The steno looked at the fat man and nodded she was ready.

"Fraulein Overbeck, I am Detective Lieutenant Ernst Gennat, head of the Berlin police murder squad," the man said as the steno's fingers moved on her machine, making marks on a roll of paper.

Greta said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"You are being questioned about the deaths of August Benda and his daughter Margot. Do you understand why you are here?"

"Yes," Greta said in a small voice.

"So," Gennat said. "First, you have the right to a lawyer."

"I…no," she said, right away knowing she wanted no lawyers…not for what she was about to do. A lawyer would just try to talk her out of it. She needed to do it.

"I would suggest having one," Gennat said. "This is a serious situation and you need advice."

"No. I am ready to confess."

That seemed to stop his next question on his lips, and he merely nodded. "Confessions are good. Every policeman in the world loves a confession. Makes our job so much easier. Yet it sometimes does not lead to the truth. And the truth is what I seek here, Fraulein Overbeck. So, no lawyer…for now. Our Fraulein Doris here will take notes of all we say, so in the future a lawyer can review them. Now, let us start at the beginning. How did you come to be employed by Councilor August Benda and his family?"

An hour and a half later and they were done, with her speaking and he asking many questions. She held nothing back. She had told him it all. How she got the job with Stephan's help, how he invited her and Charlotte to the lake, how she met Fritz and Otto. All of it, Fritz's death by political police bullets, Otto planting the bomb to get revenge, how she saw Fritz at the train station, alive, how she tried to stop it all but was too late. Benda died…

"And Margot," she whispered at the end, tears flowing down her cheeks. "They were not supposed to be home. Frau Benda and the children."

Silence for a long moment. Then Gennat spoke. "These men, Fritz and Otto. They said they were Communists?"

"Yes. I also saw Fritz march in one of their funerals after the May 1 riots."

"But you saw Fritz in a Nazi uniform, the SA, at the train station. After you thought he had been killed. Are you sure it was him?"

"I'm sure. But he said he didn't know me, that I was mistaken. I didn't understand why he would say that. Now I know why. I was duped…used…by them to get what they wanted."

Gennat nodded. "Did you meet them before or after you took the job with Councilor Benda?"

"Sorry?"

"Was it before or after you started working for the Benda family that you met the two young men?"

Greta was confused for a moment, then remembered. "Before. I had the job interview with Frau Benda the day after the lake trip."

"Then they did not know you worked for Herr Benda when you met them?"

"No. But…I think I said something about my job interview…and with who."

"Ah, so that means the lake meeting was by chance, and afterwards they made their plans."

Greta sighed. "Yes. They found a stupid maid to fool and do their dirty work." She hung her head, unable to look at the detective.

"So, Fraulein Overbeck," he said at last. "We are done for now. You will be taken to the women's prison to await the results of our investigation. I will see that a lawyer is appointed, for despite your wishes to confess, there will most likely be a trial, and you will need a lawyer. We will investigate further this information you have given us and may need to speak to you again."

Then it was over. Gennat opened the door and told a police officer outside the room to take her. Out the door she went, where more police waited. They put hand cuffs on her and escorted her through halls and down stairs to a waiting police van. She was shoved inside with another police officer sitting beside her. Greta said nothing and neither did the police officer.

Two hours later she was inducted into the world of woman's prison in Germany. Her clothing was taken away, she was given a thorough scrubbing, deloused with a foul smelling powder, and then examined by a woman doctor, who noted her Caesarean birth scar on a paper form she filled out. Then Greta was given new, rough, dull grey clothing and black shoes, fed a quick meal of bread, jam, and weak tea, was given a pile of bedding, a towel, soap, and a toothbrush, and then was shoved into a cell by a hulking ugly brute of a woman guard. The only good thing was she was alone at last. After she made her bed, she looked out the barred window.

It was late afternoon and the sun was soon going down. She wondered if this was the view for the rest of her life. Then she remembered. She had helped kill two people…an important man and his child. They would take her life for that. And she found she did not care. It was a just punishment. She wondered if Fritz was really dead, or alive, or if it had all been a dream.

* * *

**Gennat**

The girl's story was a tragic tale, of a young woman used by men for their own evil ends. Not the first time he had heard such a story. But this one was different, for the obvious reason a high ranking member of the political police department had been murdered.

The Berlin police got its style from the old state of Prussia, and was currently divided into the criminal and political police forces. Criminal police, naturally, dealt with crime, while the political police dealt with issues of a political nature. This usually meant matters involving foreigners on German soil, and other such things, such as providing security for visiting dignitaries. Councilor Benda's replacement had to be someone with skill in such areas. When Gennat heard the replacement's name, he was not impressed.

The office of Reich President Paul von Hindenburg let it be known they wished to name Benda's replacement. Germany was a democracy but a young one, only ten years old, and the old imperial ways died hard. President Hindenburg, a hero of the Great War, had certain executive powers invested in the constitution, and when he asked for something, he got it. Retired Colonel Gustav Wendt, Hindenburg's former aide, was given the job.

Wendt was not and never had been a policeman, which was part of the problem, but not too serious, as he would have good men under and over him. But he was a cold fish as far as Gennat was concerned and many would agree. Wendt had a ready smile but his eyes were always cold. A prominent scar on his left cheek enhanced his eerie look. Wendt always claimed he got the scar in the trenches but Gennat had heard another story, that he got it in a saber duel between him and another officer over a woman before the Great War. As duels were strictly forbidden, the act was covered up as a training accident by Wendt and his officer friends.

He was waiting in Gennat's office when he returned from questioning Fraulein Overbeck.

"Colonel," Gennat said in greeting.

"Detective," Wendt replied, a sort of insult, as Gennat's rank was much higher, but he let it pass.

Gennat waved to chair and as Wendt sat Gennat also sat and lit up half a cigar left in his ash tray. He took his time as Wendt waited patiently. "So, what can a lowly detective do for the new head of the political police?"

"The Benda case. We will take over."

Gennat nodded. "I see. So…this is the wish of the police president?"

"It is."

"Shall I call him and ask?"

"By all means. He may say he has not authorized this, but he will. A political murder falls in my area of responsibility."

"How do we know it is a political murder?"

"Come," Wendt said with his cold smile. "A bomb in his home? What else could it be?"

"A jealous lover, an old business partner seeking revenge, a criminal Benda put away years ago. The possibilities are endless."

"And how many criminal murderers used a bomb this year? Or even in the last ten years?"

"None," Gennat admitted.

"So, we can assume it has political overtones. What did the girl say? The maid?"

Gennat grunted. "I have just finished the interrogation."

"And?"

"I am not ready to discuss the case."

Wendt smiled again. He stood and straightened his dark necktie. "You know, detective, it would not be good to get on my wrong side so early. We must be as one to face the troubled times ahead."

"I have seen the result of this being 'as one'," Gennat answered sternly. "A train full of poisonous gas in the middle of our city, various parties squabbling over a non-existent fortune in gold, a good young detective assistant murdered in cold blood, an attempted assassination of a visiting leader and one of our top politicians, and now the murder of August Benda and his daughter."

Wendt stared at him for a long few seconds. "Where did you serve?"

"In the war? Here, doing as I do now. But I was much younger and thinner in those days."

Wendt grunted. "We who served in the trenches know where our loyalties lie. To a greater Germany."

"As do mine…and its people."

Wendt smiled again. "Good. Then we should have no problems. I expect the Benda case file tomorrow, including the interrogation notes. Good day…detective."

As soon as Wendt was gone Gennat called his boss, Police President Karl Zorgiebel .

"It's going to happen whether we like it or not," Karl told him over the phone. "Let him have the case. This is a political situation after all."

"As you wish, sir," Gennat said as he hung up. He didn't like it but he tried to stay out of politics as much as possible. Crime, particularly murder, was his area of expertise.

It was almost time to end the day of work but one more duty fell to him. A member of the personnel department arrived with a list of changes and new hirings for his approval. One name caught his eye.

"Fraulein Ritter, Charlotte," he said out loud just as he was about to sign the paper. "She wants to be a criminal assistant in the murder squad?"

"Yes," said the woman from personnel with a sour look. "We told her it was impossible, sir, but she applied anyway. She has a clean record and a good recommendation from Detective Rath. But I thought you should know about this. I think we can send her to the woman's police or perhaps vice."

"No," Gennat said, an idea on his mind. "Give her the job she asked for."

She looked surprised. "As you wish, sir. I will make the appointment of Charlotte Ritter as a criminal assistant for the murder squad. Normal probation period for four months."

"Very good."

He knew there would be resistance to a woman joining the murder squad. But it was time. She and Rath seemed to have a good working relationship. She would be his new assistant. He just hoped she was tough enough to handle it.

* * *

**Gereon**

It was a week since Detective Gereon Rath came out of the hospital, a long week of shocks and surprises, the last one being the worst.

The first shock was the reaction of the people to his testimony in the case of the public against the police. He expected it but it was still unsettling.

It all went back to the killings on May 1, when he and Bruno had witnessed policemen gun down two women in a Communist neighborhood of Berlin. The memory of that almost made his hands shake, seeing their blood, holding one in his arms as she died, running through a hail of bullets to find a doctor, a doctor who later followed them to the morgue and almost came to blows with Bruno as she accused the police of murder.

Her name was Doctor Volcker and she was also a politician for the German Communist Party. Now she sat directly behind him as he gave testimony in court, claiming he and Bruno were fired on by Communist gunmen. The court erupted in anger, many shouting at him, calling him a liar and a traitor, Volcker's voice the loudest.

When he left the court he got another shock. Helga was waiting for him. He had not known she was coming to the trial.

"Did you hear?"

"I did," she said, her eyes sad. "Come. Let's go home."

Home, a small hotel room for his brother's widow, their son, and him, living a lie. Helga and he had been lovers for ten years, a secret few knew, but she was his brother's wife. The boy, Moritz, knew now, though he kept the hope that his father was still alive. Anno Rath went missing at the front in France in the last days of the war. More than ten years and no word from him. The German government finally declared him dead a few weeks ago after all avenues of hope had been exhausted.

In the car Helga began to speak as he drove. Her first question was like a knife to the guts.

"Why did you lie?" she asked. She knew the truth about May 1. He had told her it all when she came to Berlin from their hometown of Cologne, as she held him as he lived though one of his shaking nightmares of war and death.

"I had to protect the people and institution I work for."

"Why? They murdered innocent people."

A long silence as he struggled with an answer. "You don't understand," was all he could come up with.

"Try to explain."

"The people I work with, they would ostracize me if I told the truth. No one would want to work with me. And then some dark night as we raided a drug operation or a criminal gang's hideout I would get a bullet in the back."

That shocked her. "That can't be true!"

"It is. It happens. It does. And then where would you be? I lied to protect you and Moritz as well as myself."

She said nothing more the whole way back to the hotel. When they parked, he looked at her.

"I want you to start looking for an apartment," he said. "Something bigger, but no more than 30 marks a week."

"I have money. We can do better."

"What money?"

"Anno's life insurance came in at last now that he is officially declared dead."

It was a gut reaction. "No, I…I can't."

"Gereon," she said gently. "He is gone, we must move on. This money is for me and Moritz. And you. I want to find a nice place."

He sighed and nodded. "But I see it first before you sign a lease."

She smiled. "Of course."

"Good. I must go back to headquarters. Some unresolved issues with the train case."

She kissed him good bye, got out, and he drove back to the city center. When he got to the murder squad office everyone congratulated him on his testimony. Then came a nice surprise. Charlotte's application to become a criminal assistant was accepted. When Gereon told her and handed her a badge and ID card, Charlotte had turned pale and looked away. When she turned back the look of joy and disbelief on her face made her seem more beautiful than ever.

Yes, he found her attractive, and thought of kissing her and doing many other wonderful things with her. But he fought those feelings for two reasons. He was living with another woman, one he truly loved, and many people thought Helga was his wife. And he was Charlotte's superior at work. That was a line he knew he should not cross. After Stephan's death she had been distraught and he had comforted her, and they had almost kissed. Both had pulled back at the same time, and the look in her eyes told him that she and he both knew it was wrong, but also both wanted it badly. Then when she was missing and he thought she was dead, how wild he had been, and then the lake and after he had saved her, how much he had wanted to do all he knew he should not, to hold her in his arms and never let go. So he knew these feelings were growing. And now she was his assistant! He would have to be strong to control his desires.

They had to wrap up the loose ends of the train case and Svetlana Sorokin's whereabouts was one thing they had to answer. As they drove to Svetlana Sorokin's apartment Charlotte was full of questions about her new job.

"Do I get a gun?" was the first thing out of her mouth after he pulled the car out of headquarters onto the street.

"No!" he blurted out before he could think of a more gentle way to say it.

"Why not?" she asked in an indignant tone. "Stephan had one. All of the assistants have one. Is it because I am a woman? Are they afraid to let me have a gun?"

Gereon ignored the question because the answer was most likely yes, they did not want a woman with a gun. At least he never heard of a police woman with a gun. The woman's police of Berlin was a small unit, and mainly dealt with crimes against children. They carried no weapons as their work was investigative, not enforcement. Often when they worked cases in rough neighborhoods a male police officer went with them in case of trouble.

He looked at her, then back to the road. "Have you ever handled a gun?"

"No," she admitted.

"Maybe best if you don't. Might shoot off your finger…or worse."

"I want a gun. I'll practice. Please."

Gereon knew she would not give up. "Let me talk to the police master of arms. He controls all weapons, storage, cleaning, registering, and so on. He must agree and you must take a course with him."

"He'll agree. I'll just smile and…poof, putty in my hands."

He had to laugh at that. Yes, her smile did warm many hearts. Charlotte with a gun! Berlin would not be safe.

"How much do I get paid?" Charlotte asked next.

"I believe the rate is 12 marks a day for a criminal assistant."

"That's not much more than I made as a steno."

"It's more than many people make," Gereon told her. "And it is full time, with a chance for promotion."

"True. How long before promotion?"

"It's a probation period. Four months," he explained. "Then the rate goes up. I think so anyway. Check with the personnel office. You have to also pay into the pension plan and life insurance plan, and maybe a little income tax. So not all your pay is take home money."

"Of course. What about health care?"

"Free at the police clinic."

"For family as well?"

"Only if you are married."

"Oh," she said, sounding a bit disappointed. Gereon did not know much about her family life except that her mother had recently died. But that was something they had never talked about.

"Meanwhile, you need to study," he said.

"What? Study what?"

"Everything."

"Everything? Why?"

"Do you want to be a detective?"

"Of course!" she said with enthusiasm.

He smiled. "Then study. In four months you can take the detective's exam."

"Good. Where do I start?"

"Mainly with criminal law and procedure. Crime scene analysis, fingerprints analysis, and so on. Gennat and Herr Ulrich from records will be your teachers."

"And you?"

"Me you will follow and assist on all cases, learn as you go, mainly about procedure. But you do not have a crime scene permit yet. So you cannot investigate crime scenes without me or another detective. Got it?"

"Got it."

"That means no entering apartments without a search warrant or the owner's permission, no questioning of suspects without me, no…anything illegal. Now you are a police force member, you must be clean in all things."

She was quiet for a while until they stopped at a traffic intersection. "Gereon…about my past…I…"

"Stop. I don't want to know. Whatever you did to live, you did. End of story." But as he drove through the intersection he sensed she wanted to tell him more.

"I worked at Moka Efti," she finally blurted out. "In the basement."

He sighed heavily. "I know. Bruno and I went there to look for you. The lady in charge, the other girls…I got the gist."

"I'm sorry. Does this mean I can't be in the police?" She sounded like a child pleading for a light punishment after getting caught with a hand in a cookie jar.

"Of course not," he reassured her. "If every police man or woman had to have a perfect past there would be no police at all."

They laughed a bit about that. "And you? What is your dark secret?" she asked.

Gereon shook his head. It was too soon for that, maybe never. "Mine is mine to keep. Ah, here we are." He parked across the street from Sorokin's building.

"Oh, one more question," Charlotte said as they were about to get out of the car.

"Yes?"

"Can you teach me how to drive a car?"

She was grinning at him and he just sighed. "When we have time. Come. Let us find Svetlana Sorokin."

They saw the apartment building supervisor sweeping the sidewalk outside and flashed their badges. Charlotte seemed a little enthusiastic to show him hers, since this was the guy who had reported her to the local police when she had broken into the Sorokin apartment a few weeks ago.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" he asked as they walked up to the second floor. "Saying you were police and showing your badge?"

"Yes," she said with a grin.

"Just remember not to abuse it. And Charlotte…"

He stopped walking and so did she. "Yes?" she asked.

"Sometimes people will ignore you, badge or no badge."

"Because I am a woman?"

"Yes, but mainly because they hate the police. All police. So always be careful."

"That's why I need a gun!"

"Later we will discuss it. Come."

Inside the spacious apartment they found nothing but disarray and dust. Sorokin was gone.

Then he saw the Sorokin family painting. As he and Charlotte looked at it came the second shock of the week. They surmised that Svetlana Sorokin was not really a Sorokin family member. They had eight sons, no daughters. She might be the daughter of their chauffeur. And the gold…it might be that the tanker car was made of gold!

Of course they had no way to prove any of it. The train was gone back to Russia and the Soviets would never let it back again for certain.

"What do we do?" Charlotte asked.

"Nothing. Not even in the report. It's just a theory, not fact."

They spoke to the supervisor and he told them Fraulein Sorokin had come in like a whirlwind two days ago, packed a few bags, and asked him to get her a cab to the train station. She did not say where she was going.

As they drove in the car back to headquarters Charlotte had an interesting question. "Did Sorokin actually commit a crime?"

"Uncertain," Gereon replied. "That bullet you found in a book, under the window. Could have been from a gun she had. But we have no gun to match it and none turned up in our records check. And who was carrying the book that stopped the bullet?"

"Kardakov!"

Alexei Kardakov was a Russian musician and the leader of an anti-Stalinist organization in Berlin. He had disappeared after his organization members were all murdered in a print shop they used as their headquarters.

"Perhaps. But the band leader Tretschkow said they were in love. Why would Sorokin want to kill him?"

"Maybe she was a spy," Charlotte said. "She secretly worked for Stalin! That's how they knew about the print shop!"

Gereon was about to dismiss this idea, but then thought, could it be? "Maybe," he said. "We need to find her."

"I bet she went back to Russia."

"We'll put her on the wanted list."

Two days later they got their answer. Henning, Czerwinski, and Charlotte inquired at all the train stations as Gereon was stuck in the office going over the whole gas train affair report Gennat was pestering him for. The three trooped into the murder squad room and Gereon came to meet them as they hung up their coats.

"Well?" he asked.

"Paris," Henning said.

"France," Czerwinski added.

Henning gave his partner an annoying look. "He knows where Paris is."

Gereon looked at Charlotte, hoping for a more sensible answer. "A woman with Svetlana Sorokin's description boarded a train for Paris four days ago. Maybe. No one was certain."

Not for certain. Rail passenger tickets could be bought by anyone, going anywhere, and there were no names on tickets and no records kept of who bought tickets or who boarded trains. If the train was crossing an international border, at the border it would be stopped and all passengers needed a passport for the border inspection, but no one checked passports when the passengers boarded the train in Berlin.

Gereon thanked them for their efforts and then he and Charlotte finished the report for Gennat. After that he was beat. He left headquarters and headed out into a pouring rain, walking to the nearby street car stop for the tram that would take him home.

Now came the third shock. The worst of all. Someone tried to kill him. Then he learned his brother Anno was alive!

* * *

**Kardakov**

He knew she could not stay out of the spotlight, knew she tried to redirect the gold car to Paris, not Istanbul to Trotsky. He found her performing in a Paris night club. Now she would pay for her betrayal.

Svetlana was at her makeup table when he entered the dressing room. She saw him in the mirror's reflection. She did not seem surprised.

"So, Alexei. You live," she said.

"So do you. But not for long."

The pistol came up, small, an automatic, fitted neatly in his hand.

She stood and turned to him, fire in her eyes. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it!"

"I want answers first! Where is the gold?"

"In the train, back in Russia now." She said the last part in disgust, her precious gold, her fortune, gone back to the Motherland.

"No. There was no gold in the train."

"What?" she said in surprise. "No, I saw it there. You looked in the wrong car. I switched the numbers to confuse the Germans."

"I know. I opened the wrong car, got a lung full of gas. I almost died."

She shrugged. "So? I tried to kill you once as well."

"Bitch! You betrayed us all. You never believed in the movement. You always spied for Stalin!"

"Of course. Do you want me to apologize?"

"No, I want to know where the real gold is before you die!"

"In the…"

"No! It was fake! It was coal painted with gold!"

Now he could see the look in her eyes he had waited all these days for. "What?" she gasped. "Impossible. I saw the boxes, bars of gold, more than a ton. A fortune."

"So you keep saying. All lies. It was painted coal."

"What? How do you know if you did not open the right car?"

"The stupid Berlin police finally did something right. Everyone knew about your train, your gold. The German army stopped the train as it was heading to Russia, tried to rob the gold, but the Armenian's gang stopped them, and the police stopped the gang. Soldiers dead, gang members arrested, an explosion, a police detective killed. But no gold. Coal, painted gold. A diversion. You never intended to give us the real gold!" The gun came up higher, pointed at her head. "Where is the real gold? Where did your father hide it?"

She laughed and that shook him. "My father? My father was not a rich man. He had no gold."

"What?" She was trying to confuse him.

"Do you really think a member of the Sorokin family would be allowed to live after the revolution? I was never Svetlana Sorokin. I was never part of that family. They had no daughters."

"But…but…who…"

"My father was their chauffeur. He knew all their secrets, knew where Sorokin hid his gold. In the train car!"

"Then your father lied to you."

"Impossible."

"There is no gold, Sveta. Just coal."

She nodded, sighed heavily, seemed to accept the truth. "Then it was all for nothing. Sorokin fooled us all. He hid his real gold somewhere else." Now she looked behind him, nodded. "Take him."

Suddenly a gun was at his head and rough hands grabbed his arms and knocked the pistol from his grip. Three big men surrounded him, held him tight. Kardakov struggled but they were too strong, and he was too weak, his body damaged by the gas and other injuries.

"Not here," Svetlana said to the men. "There is an alley out back."

"No. He is for Moscow," one said.

Kardakov felt his stomach clench in fear. Moscow, to be tortured and die with a bullet to the back of the neck. "Who are you?" he asked them, his voice betraying his fear.

Svetlana answered. "Soviet agents. They have been waiting for you. I knew you didn't die. The Berlin embassy men came that night to move your body but you were gone. I told the Soviet embassy here that you might try to find me, come here looking for me. You are on their most wanted list."

They started to drag him out.

"Wait!" They stopped. He looked at her. "Sveta. You will betray me again? To these criminals of the revolution?"

She said nothing.

"Sveta! Who are you?" he shouted as they dragged him away.

She smiled. "Some one you should have never trusted."


	2. Chapter 2

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 2**

**Charlotte**

He was very good, but it still left her feeling unsatisfied, and she knew why. She wanted someone else, someone she could not have.

Charlotte Ritter sat on the side of Rudi's bed and pulled on her stockings and fastened them to her garters. Rudi lay there under the covers with a big grin on his face.

"So, my little flower, leaving already?"

She stood and straightened her skirt. She would change into more comfortable pants when she got to work.

She looked at Rudi. He was a handsome devil who worked as an assistant in the police morgue while studying for his medical degree. He and Charlotte had a few adventures there while trying to solve the mystery of the dead Russian railway worker during the Sorokin case. Last night, they had been dancing at a club and she decided, what the hell, let him take me home and do as they were meant to do. But she still wanted more.

"I must work and so must you," she said. "The dead are calling."

"The boss is giving a lecture at a medical academy this morning," Rudi told her.

"Shouldn't you be at the morgue then? Just in case."

"No. I am not fully qualified. He would have my skin if I cut anyone else up. Lucky for us he was done with the Russian guy. So I am free all morning."

He grinned and pulled back the covers, showing his naked member already fully erect again.

"Full up and ready to go," he said.

Charlotte smiled, more so to be polite, than because she enjoyed what he was showing her. "No, thank you. I had enough last night." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You are wonderful, but I must work. Bye."

"You can't leave me like this, Lotte!"

"You have two hands, help yourself!" she said with a saucy look and she laughed and then she was gone.

Now that she had the job as a criminal assistant it was time to fix her life, and leaving Rudi behind was part of it. He was very good in the sack, and it was a place to sleep. But she knew nothing would ever come of it. He was too free and wild and she wanted some stability. Her life had been too crazy the last few years. The time to live like a normal person was now. First, find a place to live. For that she needed money. It happened faster than she expected.

Charlotte got off the tram and walked to the entrance of the massive red brick building that served as police headquarters and everyone called the Red Castle. Inside she got a flashback to her previous life. A group of expectant young women, hoping for part-time work in one of the departments, waited near the main stairs. Charlotte was one of them once, but not anymore. Some saw her, knew who she was and stared. Some looks were curious, others nasty. She heard one girl whisper too loudly to her companion 'I bet she spread her legs for all of them'. Charlotte was about to give the whisperer a piece of her mind when Doris arrived.

Blond bubbly Doris was Charlotte's friend from her steno and typing school who had helped her learn about the possibility of police work many months ago. Doris had an armload of files in hand.

"Lotte!" she said in greeting. "Where have you been?"

"Working. My new job."

"Yes! Criminal Assistant Ritter. How's it going?"

"Not bad. They keep me busy. Come, we can talk about it."

"Sorry, have to type these up. But I wanted to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"Lotte, I saw your friend. The girl who worked for Councilor Benda."

"Greta Overbeck?" Charlotte said in surprise.

"Yeah. I sat in as steno when the Buddha interrogated her a few days ago. Nasty story."

"Do tell." Charlotte wanted to know everything about the case. She had to help Greta.

"You know I can't. I know she is your friend but I don't want to lose my job. Councilor Wendt took over the case. He is not as nice as the Buddha."

"I understand. Come, let's go up." They got on the nearby Paternoster lift together.

"How did she look? Greta?" Charlotte asked as they rose in the lift car.

"Scared. Weepy…sorry. Can't say more."

"Okay."

"Some of the girls are jealous of you," Doris said after a moment.

"Of my new job? They can go to hell. I earned it."

Doris nodded. "Can you imagine them fighting crime?"

"No. I can hardly believe I am doing it."

"You must keep strong. For all of us."

"Us?"

"Women! We must get more rights, better jobs, more money!"

Doris spoke with a passion Charlotte rarely heard from her. "I will do my best."

"Good. This is me. Good luck."

"See you!"

Doris got off and Charlotte got off on the next floor. When she arrived at the murder squad she found her suitcase in Gereon's office where she had hidden it yesterday after work. She went to one of the few woman's bathrooms and changed into more comfortable attired, a nice blouse and pants.

When she got back to the office, Henning told her she had to go to personnel. "You need to complete your employment forms."

"Good. I'll go now. Where is Detective Rath?" she asked as she looked around, expecting to see him by now.

"Not in yet," Henning said.

"Late," Czerwinski added.

"Fraulein Ritter," said a voice behind her. It was Detective Sargent Wilhelm Bohm, not her favorite person in the murder squad. When she was a steno/typist he had enjoyed shouting at her.

"Detective Sargent," she said as she turned. He was a tall man, with a thin mustache, an imposing posture, and an overbearing sense of being right all the time.

"I hear you are joining us as a criminal assistant."

"Yes, sir."

He snorted. "A woman. In the murder squad. You won't last."

"I beg to differ...sir."

"Gennat is out of his mind."

Charlotte was conscious of all the other detectives and assistants looking at her. "Excuse me, sir," she said, trying to sound confident. "I have an appointment with personnel."

"That's where you belong, typing and filing," he said with a nasty sneer as he turned and went into his office.

Charlotte stood there, feeling her face grow hot, and no one said a word. She turned and left as quickly as she could.

I will not cry, I will not cry, she thought over and over as she made her way to the Paternoster lift and got on the side going down. Two floors below was personnel but she was so distraught she missed her stop. As the lift turned at the bottom and made its way up again to her surprise Gereon got on it on the ground floor. He looked worse than she felt. And he was wearing the same shirt and suit as yesterday.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning," he barely mumbled.

"No sleep?"

"Not much. Where are you going?"

"Here. Personnel."

As she stepped off he shouted to her. "Press conference at 11 AM in the great hall. About the Benda case."

"Good, I'll be there," she answered.

She entered the busy personnel office and walked over to the desk of the head woman who had once told her she could never be in the murder squad. Charlotte smiled. "Good morning."

The woman stared at her. "Fraulein Ritter. I expected you a few days ago."

"I was busy. On a case." She said it with a little smile.

The woman ignored her comment. "ID card, please."

Charlotte handed over her ID card. It was a small rectangle of stiff paper folder in half. It had her picture, name, job title, and the date she began…four days ago. And an official police stamp across her picture. The woman examined it and handed it back. "Don't lose it. Three marks to have it replaced."

"I won't."

She next handed Charlotte a series of papers she had to fill out. As she handed them to her she said what they were for. "Life insurance, pension plan, personal information form, and next of kin notification form."

"Sorry? The last one?"

The woman stared at her. "In case you get hurt or die. Who do we notify? Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Sit over at that empty desk, complete them, and give them back to me."

"Ah…in pencil? Ink?"

"No. Use the typewriter. I know you know how."

Another dig at her, this from a woman, who obviously thought as Herr Bohm did. On the desk was a typewriter of a type Charlotte had used many times. She sat down and got to work. Some things were easy, some were not, such as what her address was, as she had no place to live yet. On the personal information form they asked about education. She had finished elementary school and steno/typing school and that was it, so this part was quite bare.

The life insurance cost three marks a month and would pay out 3000 marks in case of death. That didn't seem like much for a life. But better than nothing. On the life insurance form she had to put a beneficiary. She guessed most police workers put their spouse or mother and father. Stephan's parents…God, they must have gone through this, going to an insurance office, collecting his blood money. She had seen them recently, and they had congratulated her on her new job. They had been so kind to her, but she saw they were in turmoil. A cruel fate to take their son from them. Bruno got what he deserved. She hoped he was in hell.

Still, she had no idea who…ah, Toni! Her younger sister. Yes, Toni would get the money if Charlotte…no, best not to think about…but it had almost happened, twice. Yes, Toni would get the insurance money and hopefully have a good life. Money meant good things.

Then a question came to mind. "When and how do I get paid?" she asked aloud.

Charlotte had no idea how full-time workers got paid. She had been working full-time in the murder squad but as a steno/typist, and she now realized maybe she was still considered a part-timer because she got no benefits like a pension or insurance or health care. As a part-timer she had been paid in cash by the job or on a week to week basis. She had only been with the murder squad a few weeks. Her last pay of forty-five marks from a week ago was almost gone.

A blond girl who worked there walked by with an armload of files. She heard Charlotte's question, stopped and grinned and explained how it worked. "Pay day is twice a month, the 15th and the last day of the month. If it's on a Sunday we get paid on Monday."

"Sounds good."

"Not really. People from accounting go to all the offices in the morning and if you aren't there to sign for your pay, you must go to the accounting office later. So many people miss the office pay time it's always a madhouse."

"Can't they make a better system?"

"You'd think." Then the girl leaned in closer. "Say," she said in a quieter voice. "Are you really an assistant detective?"

"Yes, I am," Charlotte answered with pride.

"Wow. Do you work with that dreamy Herr Rath?"

"I do," Charlotte said, feeling a twinge of jealousy. She wondered if all the girls liked him.

"Gisele!" the head woman shouted. "Don't you have better things to do than gossip?"

The girl scurried away but whispered "good luck" before she left. And it was said in a sincere tone.

"Thanks." That made Charlotte feel ten times better.

After the girl went back to her own work Charlotte did a quick calculation in her head. Today was the second last day of May. She would get paid tomorrow but only for five days of work. Then she would have to wait two weeks to get paid again. Not enough for a new life. Then someone seemed to come to her rescue. It was Gereon, of course!

An older woman entered the office. "Is there a Charlotte Ritter here?"

"I am Charlotte Ritter."

The older woman approached her with another piece of paper. "ID please."

Charlotte took out her ID card.

"Sign this paper," the woman said when satisfied Charlotte was who she said she was.

"What is it?"

"A payment received form. I am from accounting. And let me tell you running around this building looking for you is not how I like to spend my days."

"I'm sorry."

"Never mind. Did you work over time these hours and these days assisting Detective Rath as a part-time steno/typist in a special case he worked on?"

Charlotte quickly looked at the dates on the paper. "Yes, I did." She signed it and the woman took the paper back, handed over a small envelop, and left. Charlotte looked inside the envelop and got a shock. Eighty marks! And some change! That was more than her weekly rate. She was stunned. That would be enough to get a nice place to live and to eat some decent food. Saved!

Then she realized she had to be careful. Eighty marks would not last long. Maybe a good room and normal food would do.

She continued to fill out the forms, feeling much better. An address they needed so she gave her old address, a place she would never live in again, and she would have to change it when she got something of her own. Next of kin…it had to be her older sister Ilse. There was no one else. Well, her grandfather was still alive, but he was so far gone into his own mind, sitting in a chair all day, he would never understand what was going on.

An hour later and she was done, had signed everything. The woman looked them over, nodded her approval, and then she gave Charlotte a long appraising look.

"Fraulein Ritter. I was against this appointment. But Herr Gennat overruled me. He seems to see something in you. Try not disappoint him. He is dear to all of us in the Berlin police."

"I won't. Thank you."

Charlotte left and felt like she was walking on air. Gennat asked for her! That had to mean something. Gosh, she hoped she never disappointed him.

But best of all she had money in her pocket. She must have been glowing when she came back to the murder squad because many people gave her nods and looks and smiles and a few introduced themselves. Only Bohm had a sour look for her. Later she heard from Henning and Czerwinski that Gennat had called all the squad staff together. He told them all that Charlotte would be joining them full time, that they were to treat her like a colleague, and if they had a problem with that, they could find another job. Charlotte wished she could hug and kiss the old man, her heart filled with so much love for him right now.

She saw Gereon in his office and entered.

"I'm finished," she said with a grin and a little bounce in her step.

"What?" he asked, hardly looking at her. He was busy strapping his holster and gun on.

"Personnel. I am officially entered into the ranks of the Berlin police murder squad."

He nodded and seemed distracted, looking like he was in another world for some reason.

"Gereon…is all well?"

"Sorry. Good. Did they pay you for your previous work?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"No problem."

"It was more than my rate as a steno/typist."

"I asked them to pay you for overtime. After what happened to you, trying to help me, I'd say you more than deserve it."

She grinned, felt shy, and could not speak, she was so overcome with gratitude.

Gereon seemed to sense her unease so he changed the topic. He looked at her suitcase sitting in a corner. "Yours?"

"Yes. Sorry. I…I am between places. I'll move it soon. I promise."

"If you need more money…"

"No! It's more than enough till pay day. Thank you."

Then his phone rang. He answered. "Hello?...Helga…I'm fine…Sorry…I'll explain when I see you…"

She eased her way out of the office, not wanting to eavesdrop. After she left she saw Gennat waving her over to his office. She entered and he closed the door behind him.

"So…all set?" he asked.

"Yes, Herr Councilor." Gennat was the criminal councilor, and Wendt was the political one, Charlotte knew. She had to keep these ranks straight. Though she had heard Gennat preferred to be called Detective Lieutenant, his normal police rank, or just detective. But she had to be respectful so she gave his highest title.

"Good. There is one problem," Gennat said. "Herr Rath has requested the use of a gun for you."

"Good," she began and then saw the look on his face. "Oh."

"The police master of arms refuses to even think about the idea. And as he is God in his world, as I am in mine, there is little I can do."

"Thank you for trying, Herr Councilor." She tried to sound upbeat but was clearly disappointed. Then she had an idea. "If I become a detective can I have a gun?"

"Of course," he said. "All detectives carry a gun. Except me."

"Oh? Why not?"

He grinned. "I am too old and fat to be going around chasing suspects. I'll leave that to the younger men like Herr Rath. My job is to solve murders. So, now we come to the main reason you are here. Your training. Has Herr Rath explained things?"

"He said I will study with you and Herr Ulrich from records and follow him on cases."

"Good." He reached for a paper on his desk and handed it to her. "Here is a list of books in our police library on the fourth floor. Read them, know them, absorb them."

She scanned the list and saw his name as author of two books. "Your books?" she said in surprise as she pointed the book titles out.

"Yes. Minor tomes in criminal theory and profiling."

"Profiling?"

"I believe, Fraulein…ah…"

"Ritter."

"Yes. Why do I always forget your name? Age, I suppose. Fraulein Ritter. Profiling is the belief that certain types of personalities commit certain crimes against certain people. For example, serial murderers often kill within their own groups, such as their own race, religion, or ethnicity. And sometimes a pattern forms, with a serial killer often using the same technique or weapon, killing at the same time, same area. Or they kill people with the same appearance, and…."

"Ah! I know this!"

"Really?"

"Yes. I worked with Herr Graf cataloging all the old murder files. Just like you said. Same weapon, same style of attack, and so on."

"Very good. So you have some knowledge of this. Perhaps if you have time you can continue with the murder files. There is much more to do. A special project. I will ask for an assistant for you."

"I know someone who can help." Doris always wanted more work.

"Good. Also, try to find information about murderers we have caught. Most have been executed so that will be more difficult. Family history is important. People who come from broken homes, from a history of violence and sexual abuse, they often commit the most heinous crimes."

"Like Fritz Haarmann? You helped catch him I heard." It was a famous serial murder case from a few years ago.

A serious look came over him and he nodded. "The Butcher of Hanover. Killed over two dozen boys and men. Yes, I helped catch him. As nasty as they come. You are not afraid of any of this I hope?"

"No, sir," she replied, trying to sound confident.

"Good. Murder squad may sound romantic, Fraulein Ritter, but I assure you it is an ugly sordid business we are dealing with here."

Then his phone rang and he answered. She was about to leave but he motioned for her to stay. He spoke in short sentences, finished quickly, hung up and then wrote something on a piece of paper.

"So, we will make a training schedule for you and the other assistants. In four months you will have your exam. Meanwhile…your first case."

Gennat handed her the paper. It had an address on it, in Wedding. "One dead, male. Looks like murder. Get Rath and go catch a murderer, Fraulein Ritter!"

Charlotte grinned and raced out of the office, thrilled at having her first official case in the murder squad.

* * *

**Gereon**

They caught him in the rain, half way to the tram stop. Communists, a group of men, with Doctor Volcker, grabbed him in an alley, beat him, threw a sack over his head, put him against a wall, a gun barrel to the back of his head. His own gun was back in the office. After taking his daily injection for his nerves he stupidly took off his Dreyse 1907 and put it in his desk drawer.

Now they had him. As Volcker said they were going to execute him for lying to the German people about May 1, he found only one image came to mind, one face he would truly miss. Not his hated father or dead mother, or his dead brother, who had always overshadowed him in all. Not even Helga or Moritz.

It was her…Charlotte.

BLAM! A shot…but he didn't die!

Screams, yells, running feet in the rain, Volcker shouting for them to run. More shots. Rough hands grabbing him, shoving him in a car, dripping water everywhere, his hat thrown on his lap.

Silence except for the sound of the car tires on wet pavement, rain hitting the roof.

The sack over his head was removed. Sitting opposite him in a large car's rear passenger section was the Armenian, Edgar Kasabian, dressed well as always.

"Herr Rath," he said.

Gereon said nothing, looked at the hand where he had shot Kasabian weeks ago. The bandage was gone. Kasabian saw him looking, flexed his hand.

"Still stiff."

"Why?" Gereon asked quietly. "Twice now you could have killed me or let me be killed."

"Yes, I should have killed you long ago. Some of my men wonder why I haven't."

"I took your blackmail films," Gereon said. "I shot up your restaurant. I shot you. I arrested some of your men at the train. I stopped you from robbing a train car full of gold."

"No gold was found. Only coal. Kardakov lied to me."

"No. He didn't know. No one knew. Not him or the woman who called herself Svetlana Sorokin, the one who sang in your night club. None of them knew where the gold was."

"And you do?" It was said with a condescending tone, mixed with contempt and disbelief.

"No, but I have an idea. The tanker car. It was made of gold, painted to look like an ordinary car."

Kasabian looked at him with wide eyes, then smiled slightly. "Ridiculous. To make a car like that would take such skill. Sorokin…Sorokin…" He got quiet.

"Yes. The Sorokin family made their fortune in heavy machinery. They made railroad cars."

Kasabian remained icily calm. "Proves nothing. And matters not. The train is gone. And the singer? Why didn't she know this? She was their daughter, no?"

"They had no daughters. She might have been their chauffeur's daughter. We'll never know. She's gone."

Now he showed some emotion as he snorted in disgust. "All for nothing. No gold. My best singer gone. Paying a fortune to lawyers to get my men out of lock up. Luckily your two idiot detectives bungled the job. Took all the guns, piled them up. Made a real mess. Who's to say who shot who with what? The state attorney dismissed all charges."

"It doesn't matter. Your men killed soldiers who wanted to destroy our democracy. They won't be missed."

"And you killed your partner," he said with a grin. "How is that going over in the Red Castle?"

"They congratulated me. Bruno killed one of our men to cover up his crimes. Then he tried to kill me and…and…"

"Charlotte Ritter. And you saved her from the lake. Your heroic reputation grows, detective. Such a lovely girl. She told me all about the train."

"If you are trying to put a wedge between us, forget it. I know all."

"But she didn't tell you before you got to the train."

"Because you threatened her family!"

He shrugged. "Really? I can't recall making any threats."

"Leave them alone!"

"Herr Rath, I just saved your life. I have no intention of harming you, or the girl, or her family. You know for someone who almost lost his life ten minutes ago you are very talkative."

"I'm getting used to people trying to kill me. Why haven't you tried?"

"You will soon find out. Meanwhile, that woman. Volcker. She hates you."

"She has good reason to."

"I know you lied on the witness stand to protect your police colleagues."

"So?"

"You were lucky this time. I was sent to pick you up. Arrived just in time. Too close, Herr Rath. One second later…."

"We wouldn't be here, now."

"Yes. Volcker will try again. And she and her friends want this whole city red. That would hinder my businesses. My friends I do business with are also worried. I think it is time she was put away."

"I cannot listen to you speaking of murder, even if it is someone who wants me dead."

He smiled. "A straight arrow to the end. Well, almost. Never you mind about Volcker. We won't kill her. I know enough about her shady medical practice to have her spend some time behind bars."

"I heard she runs a top notch medical service."

"She does. But abortion is still illegal in Germany."

Gereon had not known she performed such services. "I am sure she covered her tracks."

"We'll see."

Gereon knew what that meant. Phony evidence, lying witnesses, trumped up charges, money in someone's pocket. If played right Volcker would go behind bars. He would sleep easier knowing it was so.

Kasabian picked up the sack from the floor. "Put it on. You cannot see where you are going."

"Why? Where am I going?"

"You will soon find out. Do not be alarmed. No harm will come to you. The sack. Please."

Gereon reluctantly put it on. Soon the car stopped. He was led out into the rain with two men by his sides. They went up steps, though a door, inside, no rain. Up more steps, long steps. Down a hall, into a room. He was put in a chair. The men left.

The sack came off. He was in a small room with a small table and two chairs. Opposite him was a man he recognized. The man he saw when he woke up from being drugged in the Pepita Bar. They were alone.

"You. Who are you?" Gereon rasped. He was a thin man with greying hair, a mustache, round wire rimmed glasses, and what looked like burn scars on one side of his face.

"I am Doctor Schmidt. I am here to help you. To cure you of the horrors of war. Will you let me help you?"

Gereon felt calm as the man spoke. His voice was so soothing. "Yes," he said without hesitation…and then the nightmare began.

The Doctor took him back to the war, to how he saved his brother Anno only to have the French separate them as prisoners. But it had been a lie, a lie buried deep in his mind. The Doctor brought out the truth. He had not saved Anno. He had left him to die. He had run away, a coward, a shaker, a pants pisser, a man who was barely in control of his emotions, who needed drugs to get through each day.

And then came the third shock of the week, the worst of all. The Doctor was Anno!

Gereon broke down, cried, hugged his brother. Why didn't he see it before? Why was his mind so clouded? Why…why!

"Why?"' he gasped.

"I know you have questions, Gereon," Anno said as they sat again. He was still so calm.

"We thought…everyone thinks you are dead!" Gereon shouted.

"Yes. Anno Rath is dead."

"No…what? How can you say that?"

"Anno Rath died in the war. I am Doctor Schmidt.'

Gereon felt like his head would explode. "How can you say that?"

"You are not ready to understand yet, Gereon. You must come back to me twice a week. We must delve deeper into your subconscious. Soon you will no longer need drugs to keep you functioning. That is the goal here. To free you of the horrors of war."

He did not understand. "But…Helga…Moritz!"

"They are not mine now. They never were."

"They are your family!"

"I know you and she were lovers before we married."

"I…I'm sorry." He always thought Anno knew but now it was confirmed.

"It was a marriage that should not have been," Anno said. "She was so young. Fifteen years. I was off to war. I was selfish, hoping if I had someone waiting I would survive. But the war erased me of those ideas. I am no longer that man."

Gereon didn't understand what he was babbling about but he knew one thing. He stood. "But we must tell them!"

"No."

"She has been waiting more than ten years!"

"Has she? Waiting for me…while sharing your bed?"

That floored him. He sat again. "Moritz…he thinks you are still alive."

"He is a good boy, I imagine."

"He is. Sometimes I wish he was my son."

"Make him so. Marry Helga."

This was too much. "I…no. I must tell them the truth."

"You would destroy them."

"What?"

"If they find out I have been alive all these years? If they find out I want nothing to do with them? What will that do to their souls? No, better they think I am dead."

"I can't hold this in. I can't. It will break me." He started shaking and Anno stood and hugged him tight.

"No, Gereon, that is why I am here," he whispered. "To help you heal, my brother."

And then he understood. Gereon pulled back and they sat again. "You have been watching out for me."

"Yes."

"Kasabian…"

"One of my patients. He was much like you. Heroin was his cure for the pains. I weaned him off of it. Took him from the abyss of addiction. Now he is a strong confident man."

"A criminal."

"So he is. But I need his support to help others like you and he. And who are we to judge those damaged by war? Society does that enough. Shuns us, ignores our needs. We remind them of our nation's failure. We fought for them and their ideas. Millions of Germans marched off to war. Some came back. All who survived were damaged in mind or body or both. And our country wants to forget about us. It is they I serve now. Our brothers in arms."

Gereon had no argument for that. "I…I need to think."

"Go home."

"No…I can't face them…yet."

"There is a bed nearby. Go, rest. We will talk in the morning."

But he couldn't sleep until late, maybe got an hour or two of rest. When he woke up, no one was there. He was still so tired. He walked around, in a fog of his mind. He found a large marbled hallway below a long flight of stairs. An old man sweeping the floors saw him, showed him the entrance.

"Where am I?" Gereon asked. The man told him it was an institute for the war veterans. To help them heal.

"Dr. Schmidt does wonders."

"Where is he?"

The man shrugged. "Where he needs to be."

Gereon stepped outside. A car was there, waiting, a driver by its side. "Dr. Schmidt was called away. He asked me to drive you wherever you need to go," the driver said.

"Berlin police headquarters." He was late.

As they drove through the morning traffic he thought on all Anno had said…and he knew he was right. He could not tell Helga and Moritz…not yet at least.

His stomach rumbled but he had no time for food. He thanked the driver and raced into headquarters. There he got another shock, seeing Charlotte Ritter, on the lift going up. He was so stunned, reminded of her face being his last thought, he could barely speak to her. But as she left he did remember one thing. Gennat had told him yesterday there was to be a press conference at 11 for the Benda case.

But it was not to be. They would miss it. They had a case. A murder in Wedding.

As they drove through the streets Gereon took stock of his team, trying to keep his mind off Anno's revelations. Photographer Reinhold Graf was driving, he was in the passenger seat, and squeezed in the back were Henning and Czerwinski with Charlotte seated between them. He thought they might need a bigger car next time. Or two.

Charlotte had a big grin on, perhaps happy to have her first real murder case.

Henning looked at her. "This one likes death I think, boss."

"What?" Charlotte said. "No. Just…it's exciting."

"Wait till you see the blood," Czerwinski added. "No vomiting on the crime scene."

"I won't."

"Easy, men." Gereon told them. He looked in the mirror at Charlotte. "We will ease into this, okay? Anytime you feel uncomfortable…or…"

"My parents both worked in a slaughterhouse," Charlotte said. "I know the sight and smell of blood. I'll be fine."

"Good," Gereon answered and no more was said about it.

They arrive at the destination. The scene was a domestic fight gone from bad to worse. In an apartment building courtyard sat an old woman in a wooden chair, with two policemen flanking her. She had blood on her hands and her house dress. Some was on her face as well. She also looked like she had a bruised left eye. Tears fell from her eyes but she made no sounds. A third policeman saw them and as he walked up to them they all flash their badges.

"Rath, homicide," Gereon said. "What do we have?"

"Fight between husband and wife," the policeman said. He nodded to the old woman. "Lisa Muller, the wife. Franz the husband is upstairs in the kitchen. Third floor. 302."

"Who called it in?" Gereon asked.

"A neighbor boy came running to the station. We are only a block away."

Gereon nodded and set his team to tasks. "Henning, get the wife's statement, if she's talking. Czerwinski, see if any neighbors witnessed it. Graf, get some pictures of the wife first, then come to the crime scene. Charlotte, with me."

They walked upstairs, following the policeman who had spoken to Gereon. On the third floor landing some people were hanging about, staring into number 302, the door wide open. A fourth policeman blocked the door.

"Rath, homicide," he said.

"Ritter, homicide," Charlotte said as well as they showed the fourth policeman their badges. He stepped away from the door entrance.

"I knew she would do it someday," said an old woman behind them.

Gereon stopped and turned around. "What's this? You know what happened here?"

The old woman nodded. "I do. We heard them fighting. Then came a terrible scream. I went in and took Lisa out. Franz is in there…dead. I sent my grandson for the police."

"Good. Please go downstairs and tell the detectives what you told me." The old woman and a young boy, perhaps her grandson, left the scene.

Gereon took out a pair of crime scene gloves and put them on and Charlotte did the same. "Okay," he said. "Shall we?"

"I…I don't know what to do," she admitted.

"We follow the Gennat method. Five steps. First, examine the crime scene. Just look, touch nothing, see what the scene can tell us."

"Okay."

They entered the apartment. It was an old building, late 19th century, Gereon guessed. Run down. Modern gas pipes ran along the walls, a small bathroom was to one side of a corridor, followed by living room and bedroom doors…then a kitchen. Franz Muller, an older man, a bit heavy, was laid out face up on the kitchen table, arms and legs hanging over the sides. He was dressed in a white undershirt and brown pants, no socks or shoes, a huge knife sticking out of his chest. Pools of blood were on him, on the table, and on the floor. His eyes were open and staring.

"Tell me what you see," he said in a calm voice to Charlotte.

"A dead man…on a table…a knife in his chest. Lots of blood." Her voice was calm and steady.

"Good. What else?"

She stared. "Food, on the table…broken dishes…scattered cutlery…a cutting board on the counter…bread loaf, two slices of bread. Maybe she was cutting the bread for breakfast."

"Yes. And?"

She stared, was silent…Gereon was about to speak when she did first. "His clothing. No shirt, no socks, no shoes…maybe he was not working today. Or unemployed."

"We can find out that easily enough. Very good. Now, step two. Find any evidence, but do not touch it. Mark it and take photos first, collect it afterwards. What is evidence?"

"The knife, obviously."

"Yes. What else?"

She stepped around the blood pools, looking carefully, bending down, sniffing. He bent as well, and they saw it at the same time. A half-liter sized whiskey bottle, on the floor, under the table by the wall. The top off, a small bit of amber liquid inside, the floor wet around it, the smell of alcohol in the air.

"He was drinking," Charlotte said. "Or both of them were."

"Good." They stood. "Step three, look for fingerprints. We'll wait for the crime scene team to arrive. Where should they look?"

"The knife…and the bottle."

"Yes. Step four, question witnesses. Which we will do in a moment. And step five, remove the body for autopsy. After the crime scene team finishes. Understand?"

"Got it."

"Okay, theories. What happened?"

"The wife has a black eye," Charlotte said.

"Yes, I saw that."

"The neighbor said they were fighting. Maybe not the first time. Loud enough for neighbors to hear."

"Go on."

"The wife had enough. He was drunk or both were. He hit her, she stabbed him. She was cutting the bread, had the knife in hand."

"It sounds plausible. Very good." She grinned a bit but then it fell.

"Gereon…I know I looked happy about this case. Now, seeing them…" But she had no words for what she was feeling.

"It always involves people," Gereon told her gently. "People whose lives have just been destroyed. We should never enjoy this work too much."

"I can see why now."

Herr Graf arrived with his camera. "Detective, may I?"

"All yours," Gereon said. "There is a bottle under the table. Get that as well."

An hour later they were done and the crime scene team arrived to check for prints and to remove the body to the morgue.

Henning and Czerwinski had questioned ten people from the building and all said the same. Constant fights, things thrown, her with bruises every now and then.

As they waited for the crime scene team, Gereon questioned the wife and she said what Charlotte had theorized. The wife basically confessed to them. She was mad. Her husband was a lazy bum. No work for a year. She had to work two jobs. He drank all day on her money. He hit her when the mood struck him. Today she had a drink with him trying to be friendly, to calm herself before work. But he was a mean drunk, called her a whore, worthless, couldn't give him a son, and so on. Something in her snapped, she said, after he hit her. Before she knew it, the knife was in his body.

The old neighbor confirmed it was a constant source of their fights, the wife being barren. A childless home, a drunk husband, a browbeaten wife…a perfect catalyst for murder.

The crime scene team needed her bloody dress as evidence and so Charlotte, as the only woman of the police present, went inside to keep an eye on her while she changed into clean clothing in the neighbor's home.

"How was she?" Henning asked as they waited for Charlotte to return.

"Perfect," Gereon said. "Got it all."

"Watch out for your job," Czerwinski said to his partner.

"And you as well," Henning shot back.

Later in the car they headed back to headquarters. "So…who gets to write this up?" Henning asked.

"I will," Charlotte volunteered.

The old detectives traded sly looks. "Fine," said Henning.

"Good," added Czerwinski. "You need practice."

Gereon stared at them in the mirror, knowing what they were up to. "You two help her, show her how it's done."

"Yes, boss," they reluctantly said as one.

Graf looked in the mirror at Charlotte. "First case…solved already."

She nodded, less enthusiastic than earlier. "It was…good. Easier than I thought it would be."

"We got lucky," said Gereon said as he lit a cigarette. "They all aren't like that."

"A confession at the crime scene," Henning said. "Perfect."

"The best," added Czerwinski.

"What will happen to her?" Charlotte asked.

"Life," said Henning.

"No," Czerwinski disagreed. "The axe for her."

"What?" Charlotte said in surprise. "He hit her, often. For years it sounds like."

"If she gets a good lawyer, life," Gereon said. "Maybe less."

"Seems a bit too much no matter," Charlotte said in disgust. "Seems unfair."

"It's the law," Gereon said.

"Oh," was all she said and was silent the rest of the drive.

Gereon knew what she was thinking. What would happen to her friend, Greta Overbeck, who helped murder two people in cold blood? If this poor housewife might get the life or the axe for killing her abusive husband, what would Greta get?

* * *

**Greta**

Greta was getting used to the prison routine. Wake up at 7 AM. Make bed, get dressed. Wash face and brush teeth in cell sink. Cold water only. Step outside cell when guard unlocked door. Roll call by section guard leader. Go to bathroom at the end of the hall on their floor. Wait in line to use toilets, then wash face again with hot water, all done quickly. A bath once a week, she was told, done by sections. Almost 150 women were in prison here, she later guessed. Everything was wait and hurry.

Next was breakfast. Bread, jam, tea, some oat porridge. Then work. Some women worked in the kitchen, some worked as floor cleaners, some worked in the supply area, and some worked in a small factory that collected and repaired clothing and shoes for the poor and orphans. When Greta told them she could sew well she was sent here. It was good work, and helped to pass the time.

Noon was lunch. Usually soup, sauerkraut, bread, and more tea. Then afternoon exercise. One hour in the yard, some sun and fresh air, unless it rained. Then back to work. At 6PM supper. Maybe some potatoes, or peas and carrots, a bit of meat if lucky, or fish. More bread and tea. No dessert, ever. Then back to cells. Nothing to do unless one had some books or writing material. Greta was given a Bible, nothing more. She was hardly religious but read it out of sheer boredom. Lights out was at 10 PM.

Slowly she got to know some other prisoners. They all knew who she was it seemed. The mad bomber, she heard one whisper about her the first morning as she sat at breakfast, terrified, not knowing what would happen. Child killer, someone else said, loudly. Some gave her evil looks. Many were mothers, and a child killer was the lowest of the low in prison she would learn.

On the second day an older woman prisoner sat across from her at lunch. She was larger than most, with dark hair and large forearms and rough hands. The other prisoners sitting nearby scurried away with their soup bowls to other tables.

"Well. What happened?" she asked Greta.

"Sorry?"

"Look. Some here want to kill you before the state gets a chance. So tell me it all, so I can shut these hens up and we can have peace in here, okay?"

"Who are you?"

"Martha. I run things in here. You want some chocolate, I am your woman. You want a bottle, ask. It costs, but we can work that out. So, now you know who I am and what I do. And you are Greta Overbeck, child killer. Now out with it."

So Greta told her it all, and soon the whole prison knew…and no one bothered her much after that. Duped by men, was the word. Tricked by Nazis. Made a fool and accomplice. Many of the prisoners knew that feeling.

The prison director called her to her office a few days after Greta arrived. Greta was taken in by a burly guard who stood by the door the whole time.

"So, Fraulein Overbeck," the Director said. "Fitting in well?"

"Yes, madam."

"Good. We must complete your intake forms. But first, a lawyer has been appointed by the state. He should be here tomorrow."

"I don't want a lawyer. I confessed."

"Yes. But the state insists on parading you in court and therefore you need a lawyer. A least for sentencing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, madam."

"Good. Now, family. Do you wish us to notify anyone of your being here?"

"No." Greta's pregnancy out of wedlock had caused an irreparable riff with her family. This would make it worse.

"No one?"

"No one."

"Well, then let us move on…"

"Madam? May I make a request?"

"What is it?"

"There is someone I do not wish to ever see. But she might come here looking for me."

"Who is it?"

"Detective Charlotte Ritter of the Berlin police."

"A woman…detective?"

"Yes. Charlotte Ritter."

The Director wrote down the name. "May I ask why?"

"I don't wish to say. Sorry."

"Very well."

They spent some more time completing some personal information forms and then Greta was sent off to work. As she sewed some men's shirts, she thought on how Charlotte had abandoned her. How she had so flippantly dismissed Greta's attempt to talk to her that day she and Rath came to the Benda home. How she had needed someone to talk to, about Fritz, about Otto, about it all. Charlotte had abandoned her. And Greta never wanted to see her again.

* * *

**Gennat**

You wanted the case, it's yours, Gennat thought as he looked at Wendt squirm. They were in the great hall, sort of a classroom, with blackboards and rising tiers of wooden desks. It was mainly used for teaching but it also served as a useful press conference room. And the press were here in their dozens, clamoring for answers.

Gennat and Wendt had walked in together, he the rumpled balding short fat man standing by the tall handsome aristocratic Wendt. He supposed Wendt had expected to take the spotlight, was in his best suit, neat and trim. But it was Gennat they all shouted to.

"Herr Criminal Councilor Gennat!" many shouted.

"Who killed August Benda?"

"Was it Greta Overbeck?"

"Have other arrests been made?"

Gennat raised his hands for silence and he got it. "My good ladies and gentlemen of the press. I am no longer in charge of this case. Political Councilor Wendt has this serious duty. Direct all questions to him."

Question him they did, to his great discomfort. He was not used to them, despised them. Gave short, curt answers, told them nothing they wanted to know, and left after five minutes, with a glare to Gennat.

Gennat found an angry Wendt waiting for him outside. "You deal with those animals from now on."

"As you wish, Colonel. I will have to be kept up to date on the Benda case."

"Very well."

"So. Any progress?"

"We are searching for the two men she says helped her. But I think she may be lying."

Gennat stared at him in disbelief. "You really think Fraulein Overbeck constructed and placed a bomb in his desk by herself?"

Wendt hedged, then shook his head. "No. Most likely not. But this story of Nazis dressed as Communists. Sounds like an attempt to discredit one or both groups."

"Someone helped the girl."

"She confessed to her part in it all. She will get what she deserves."

"Meaning?"

"I am sure the state will ask for the death penalty."

"Perhaps," Gennat said. "Though a repentant remorseful confessed killer is often given life."

"We'll see. Good day."

No, he was not a policeman. And he seemed a terrible politician. Gennat knew why. He came from a wealthy family with lofty connections. He was raised to be a soldier, an officer, and expected people to do as he said. But crime was not something you could order around. It had subtle nuisances and took a patient skilled hand to reign it in and find the truth. Wendt would never do that.

When he returned to his office he had a short time to go over some files of unsolved cases. Then Herr Ulrich from records arrived. A tall thin man with bulging eyes and wire rimmed glasses, Ulrich was a thorn in Gennat's side. He had an overbearing sense of superiority and thought his records department was given less credit than it deserved in solving cases. But he did good work, so Gennat tolerated his personality quirks.

"I have analyzed the bomb remains from Herr Benda's home," Ulrich told him.

"This is Councilor Wendt's case now."

"I told him what I found. He seemed disinterested and told me to tell you my findings as well."

Good. At least Wendt was easily sharing information now. "So, what did you find?"

"Common dynamite was used. Available at many mines and construction sites."

"Easy to steal and difficult to trace."

"Yes."

"And the device?" Gennat asked.

"Appears to have been triggered by someone opening the desk. I suspect a contact fuse. The desk drawer opens, an attached string or wire is pulled, a breaker is removed, the two separated sides contact each other, the circuit is complete, a charge is sent from a battery, the dynamite explodes."

Gennat knew how a contact fuse bomb worked but he also knew Ulrich liked showing off how smart he was so he let him conclude. "Have we seen this before?" he asked.

"I have read of such devices used in the war, booby traps left behind in abandoned trenches. But not in a murder case. No, Herr Councilor."

"I thought not. Any chance of fingerprints?"

"None on the material we recovered."

"Good. Thank you."

Ulrich stood there waiting for something else it seemed. "Yes?" Gennat asked.

"I have been informed that my new detective exam class has a woman."

"Yes. So?"

"Do you think she should be there? I mean, a woman's place…"

"Stop. This is not open for discussion." He knew what he would say. "She will join the new class. You will teach her as you teach the men. No special treatment. And no harsh treatment either. Do you understand?"

Ulrich didn't like it but nodded. "Yes, Herr Councilor." Then he was gone.

A short while later Rath and his team arrived in the office. After talking off his hat and coat Rath headed straight for Gennat's office. Gennat waved him inside. Rath sat and lit a cigarette.

"How was it?"

"Domestic fight," Rath told him. "Long suffering beaten wife finally snapped and stabbed her husband. She confessed on scene. She is in holding now."

"Well, a sad day for that family."

"Yes."

"And the girl? How was she?"

"Good. Very good. Fraulein Ritter has a feel for it. She will write up the report. I will check it, of course."

"Send me all the details of the case for the statistics report."

"Yes, sir."

Rath stood and went to the door. "And Rath?"

"Yes?"

"Go home. You look like hell. Get some rest."

Rath sighed heavily. "Yes, sir."

* * *

**Kardakov**

They took him to the Soviet embassy. As the car they bundled him in drove through the Parisian streets the three agents talked about the French whores they had and how much they cost and other such trivial nonsense. To Kardakov's mind they were all capitalist loving traitors to the revolution.

"So," one said to him with an elbow nudge. "You had the blond?"

"What?"

"The singer. You gave her the good one, yeah?"

The other two laughed as Kardakov remained silent. "I would like to give her it," said one.

"Na," said the third agent. "She's too cold. Bitch will freeze it off."

They were taking about the woman he thought he loved and who he thought loved him. Kardakov shut out their banter for the rest of the trip.

He was dragged into the embassy by a basement door, taken to a small room where a photographer and a camera waited. They sat him in a wooden chair and one of the agents grinned at him. "Smile, asshole."

"Why are you taking my picture?"

"For the bosses back home, scum," said another. "And your new passport."

"I have a passport," Kardakov said.

"No, no, won't do."

"Why not?"

"Never mind. A new passport, a new name for you. Now look at the camera."

He did so and they took his picture. Then the beatings began.

He did not know how much time had passed. Hours, days. In the dark cell there was no time. His face was bruised, his teeth loose, his nose most likely broken.

After the first beating he was tied to a chair and a member of the embassy staff came in. He told Kardakov he was a captain of the OGPU, the Soviet state police.

"The bosses want to know about the traitor Trotsky," he began.

"Go to hell," Kardakov said and then more beatings came.

After more of this all he told them was Trotsky was in Istanbul.

"We know, idiot," said the captain. "Where in Istanbul? An address? Who works for him? Who helps him?"

Kardakov shook his head. "I was never told. We were cells, divided, secrets kept from us. You know your part, nothing else. You know how it works!"

"Where are the other cells? What cities? What addresses? Who are the leaders?"

But he knew nothing. So on and on it went, for hours. He was tired, hungry, filthy, weak. Soon he would beg for mercy.

Then it stopped. A hot meal came. A doctor saw him, tended his wounds. He was given a shower and clean clothing. He knew why. It was time. To go to Moscow. And there he would die.

The only way to get there was by train. Across Europe. That was a long train ride. He knew what he had to do. Somehow escape.

His new passport was ready. Train tickets were purchased. He heard them speaking. They would change trains in Berlin. He knew Berlin, spoke German, knew people there, knew enough to get away. It had to be Berlin…or he would die.


	3. Chapter 3

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 3**

**Gereon**

The funeral for Councilor August Benda and his daughter Margot took place in the same large Catholic cathedral where Gereon had first met Frau Benda and her children. August Benda was Jewish but his wife and children were Catholic. He did not know any of Herr Benda's family, but it seemed there was no tension over his funeral rites being held in a religion he was never part of.

It was a Friday, almost a week after their deaths, the remains finally released after the police pathologist finished his report. Gereon and the other police officers and detectives formed a guard of honor in two long rows outside the church as the hearse rode up and the two coffins were carried inside.

To the surprise of many, Reich President Paul von Hindenburg appeared, with Colonel Wendt by his side. The old venerable soldier with his cane and drooping mustache walked up to the bereaved family and offered his condolences. The press covering the event went crazy, bouncing around, trying to get photos of Hindenburg speaking to the widow, with many police blocking their view. Hindenburg accompanied Frau Benda and her son inside and sat with them in the front row, with Wendt and Police President Zorgiebel nearby. Gennat also had a seat of honor in the front row.

As the police filed into the church Gereon looked out for Helga and Moritz, and joined them in the middle pews on the right side. Nearby were Graf, Henning, and Czerwinski. Bohm was seated a few rows up front. Not Gereon's favorite person, and he still thought Bohm suspected him of doing wrong in the Father Joseph case. Which, of course, he had.

"Hindenburg," Moritz said in awe, taking Gereon out of his thoughts.

"Herr Benda must have been of great importance," Helga added.

"He was," Gereon said quietly. He would miss him greatly, for his wisdom and friendship.

The two coffins were placed near the alter, a large one for the husband and a terribly small one for the daughter. Gereon had seen what high explosives could do to a body. Once at the front he saw a soldier completely disappear in a shell burst. All they found was his helmet and parts of his bloody uniform. No doubt not much was left to place inside those two coffins he was now looking at.

No, it was not good to think on this but it was too late. As they sat and the funeral rites began, Gereon felt the shakes coming on. Helga sensed this, and grabbed his hand and squeezed, held tight and slowly he breathed in and out and the moment passed.

His nerves had been shredded the last week. Three near death experiences in such a short time would do that to a soul. The lake, the train, the alley. And then Anno…his brother, alive…but not alive. Asking Gereon to hide his secret.

Helga was waiting when he had gotten home that afternoon after Gennat told him to get some rest. He lied, of course, said he had been working late, and had slept on a cot at headquarters.

"I called your office. No answer," she said.

"I was in another room."

"You should have called," she admonished him. "I was worried."

"Sorry."

"You look like you haven't slept at all."

"Not much. Very uncomfortable cot," he replied.

"Well, have some rest. You deserve it after all you have done for them the last week. All you have done for Germany."

"Yes, I need to sleep."

"Then later we will look at the apartment."

"You found one?"

"Yes. First your medicine. Then to bed."

She helped him with his injection and then he slept for hours. So long he slept it was dark by the time he woke up. He awoke alone, but heard voices nearby. He came of the bedroom into the small kitchen area the hotel provided for long term guests in some rooms.

"What time is it?" he asked. Helga and Moritz were having tea and some sweets at the table.

"After eight," Helga told him.

"The apartment…"

"Too late. Tomorrow. Sit. Eat."

He sat as she went to the stove and ladled some hot soup in a bowl for him and then brought it to the table. As he began to eat she cut him some bread. Looking at her cutting the bread he was reminded of the case they had today. He was reminded of her…of Charlotte.

No, he could not think of her now. Not now, with all the craziness in his life. He could not be thinking of another woman.

But he did. He thought of her. A lot.

"Gereon…Moritz asked you something."

He snapped out of his thoughts. "Sorry. What is it, junior?"

"Can you tell me something?"

"Sure. What?"

"Is it true Herr Wolter killed the policeman I found?" Moritz asked.

"Yes. Stephan Janicke." His funeral had not been too long ago. Charlotte had wept by the graveside with Stephan's parents.

"Why did he do that?" Moritz asked.

"Bruno was working for some bad men. Stephan found out."

"Enough," Helga said gently. She didn't like him taking his work home. After Moritz found Stephan's body Helga had been anxious and worried about the affect it would have on him. She wanted no more police talk in the home.

But Moritz wanted to know more. "So you killed Herr Wolter?"

"No," Gereon said. "The train car caught fire. He died in the explosion." He knew Moritz liked Bruno. Best he did not know the whole tale.

"Go do your homework," Helga said to him.

"It's done."

"Go do something. I need to talk to your uncle. And stop pestering him about his work."

Moritz didn't like it but left them alone and went to his small room.

"Sorry," Gereon said. "He is just curious."

"Too curious. I do not want him knowing about your work. Bad enough he found that body."

"Okay. No more."

"Good."

She stood next to him, looked at his shoulder wounds, which still had small bandages on them. "Let me see," she said as he tried to brush her off. He was hungry and the soup was getting cold.

"I am fine." They were flesh wound, the bullets not striking bone, thankfully. Painful but healing.

"If they become infected you won't be fine."

She checked the bandages and the stitches, and made sure all was well, re-bandaged them, then let him finish his soup and bread and she got him some tea. Then he remembered.

"August Benda's funeral is tomorrow. I'm sorry. You wanted to see the apartment."

"We will go with you. We can see it after."

"Moritz has school. It's Friday."

"He can miss one day."

"Okay. It's in the morning, we can look at the apartment in the afternoon."

"Fine."

He lit a cigarette and lit one for her as well. "We had a case today. A murder," he said as they smoked, speaking to keep his mind off of Anno, and all he wanted to tell her.

"Gereon. I don't…well, okay, tell me. What happened?"

"Husband and wife. He was a drunk, he beat her. She snapped and stabbed him. Dead."

"How terrible. You solved it?"

"My new assistant solved the case," he said before he could stop himself. "Well, the wife confessed, so not really." I should have said that to begin, his brain screamed at him. Now it was too late.

"New assistant? Who is it?"

Now he had to tell. "The same girl who came to get me that day of the train incident."

"Oh. A girl?"

"A woman."

"What's her name?"

"Charlotte Ritter," he found himself saying.

"The girl you saved from the lake?"

He stared at her. He had never told her that. "How…?"

"The newspapers. I read everything about the train case while you were in the hospital. There were also many rumors. About gold, and gas, and soldiers dying, about you saving her. After Bruno ran you off the road. Was any of it true?"

"Yes. It happened. He tried to kill us. She was drowning…I pulled her out of the car." She was drown…dead…for minutes…but that horror he could not bring home.

"Did you kill him?"

Maybe she thought he had lied to Moritz. Not lied, but he had omitted some things. "I shot the tanker he was riding on. Made a hole. He killed himself I guess. Lit a cigarette, and the leaking gas caught fire."

"A terrible way to die."

"He did terrible things."

A long silence. Then she spoke. "Have you seen his wife?"

"No…I can't face her."

"I understand." She rubbed his arm and it felt good. "So, this girl…woman...is your new assistant?"

"Yes. Criminal assistant."

"In the murder squad?" she said in surprise. "A woman?"

"Gennat approved. She will be fine. She's very good."

Helga stared at him and he thought he saw a hint of jealousy in her eyes. But she just nodded. "Good. Come, let's rest."

"I'm not tired. I just woke up."

"Well, I am going to lie down and read a bit. Come when you feel like it."

"Yes. Have a good rest."

After she left he wanted to hit himself. Why did he tell her about Charlotte? Stupid…but maybe not. She would find out eventually. If had held it in too long she might think he was hiding something.

And he was. About Charlotte…and Anno.

How could he ever tell them that?

He sat in the kitchen till midnight, smoking, thinking, seeing no way out. Finally, he went to bed and thankfully she was asleep.

Next day, after the funeral rites, Hindenburg rose and stood by the coffins and briefly spoke. His old soldier's voice boomed through the church. He spoke on the loss of such a good man and his child, a national tragedy, and how all police needed to work together to deal with this and other matters in the troubled times ahead.

After that they moved to the cemetery for the internment. A distraught Frau Benda and her weepy son were then led away by family when it was over. Family and close friends were invited to a nearby relative's home for cake and coffee, but most of the police were not. They could not hold such events in the Benda home for part of it was destroyed and was still a crime scene.

Gennat approached him just as he and Helga and Moritz were about to walk to a nearby tram stop to go look at the apartment. "Herr Rath, Frau Benda wishes to have words with you."

That surprised him but he just nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned to Helga. "I…sorry."

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"What? Of course."

"Then we will take the apartment. The agent needs a lease signed today. This morning he called and insisted."

"How much?"

"180 a month. Two months up front."

"That's…yes, fine. Agreed." He made decent money and the Rath family was not poor and he had some savings. Ten years as a busy single policeman left him little time or things to spend his money on except nice suits. And she had Anno's life insurance. Not money he wanted to use, but it was for her and Moritz.

"I will come as soon as I can," he said. He knew the address already.

He said goodbye and followed Gennat to a waiting car.

"Why does she want to speak to me?" Gereon asked him as they drove.

"No idea," he replied and that was all that was said on the matter.

Later at the relatives home, he mingled with the others, eating cake and sipping coffee, all very solemn, people whispering as if fearing to awake the dead. Hindenburg did not appear here, thankfully, or it would have been twice as stuffy and formal. As Gereon waited for Gennat to tell him when the widow would speak to him, he stepped outside on the front steps for a cigarette and saw Wendt was there.

"Detective Rath," he said and they shook hands.

"Herr Councilor," Gereon replied.

"A terrible day. For Berlin and Germany."

"Yes."

Wendt looked at him. "I have not had an answer to my offer from you yet."

The Councilor wanted him to be an internal investigator, to secretly find and weed out corruption in the police department. Gereon had thought about it, but knew he couldn't do it.

"Sorry. Busy days. I regretfully must decline the position."

Wendt stared at him, then nodded. "Very well. May I ask why?"

"I am an outsider here," Gereon said. "I need to know the city better and to build relations with my colleagues. Already some are jealous of me being named to the murder squad. If they knew about this…well…"

"I understand. Not an easy thing to do. But we must find those who would hinder good police work, Detective. Please do me one small favor. If you discovered something by chance, I would be grateful for anything you could tell me."

"I'll do what I can." It was and wasn't an answer.

"Good," he said, seemingly satisfied. Then his face turned solemn. "I spoke to the widow."

"Yes?"

"She wishes to know every last detail of the case. Of course I cannot tell her."

"Of course not." Evidence was never shared with the deceased's family members as it could taint legal proceedings. At least Wendt knew that much.

"I asked Gennat to deal with the press on this matter," Wendt went on.

"He knows how to handle them," Gereon assured him.

"I hope so. This case is very delicate. The President has taken an interest. Demands justice for Herr Benda and his daughter. I told him about the maid."

"I am certain the maid did not act alone."

Wendt stared at him and then nodded. "No, of course not. We will bring them to justice, one way or another. So, I must take my leave. Good day, Detective Rath."

"Good day, Herr Councilor," Gereon said and Wendt walked to the street where one of his assistants was waiting by a car.

Gereon went back inside the house. At the top of a set of stairs he saw Gennat looking down at him, waving him up. Gereon climbed the stairs. Gennat quietly took him to a door, said nothing, nodded, and Gereon went inside.

It was a sitting room. Frau Benda was sitting with her son, the two alone, on a sofa, both still dressed in mourning black. Tea and sweets were on a small table, but neither was having anything.

"Detective Rath," she said, her voice strained. "Please sit."

He sat in a nearby chair. "My condolences," he said. The boy looked at him, then sat silently the rest of the time they spoke. Gereon wondered what horrors he would face in the future with the memory of all this.

"Thank you," she replied. "Tea?"

"No, thank you."

She nodded and sighed and looked at him with red rimmed eyes. "Tell me…what do you know about…what happened?"

"I…it was…," but he couldn't say it.

"I know it was a bomb. I was there," she said. "I found …them."

The horror of that memory was clear on her face. "They tell me Greta Overbeck did this," Gereon finally said. That much was already in the press.

"So I was told. I find it impossible to believe she acted alone," came Frau Benda's reply.

"She could not make the bomb, no…but we believe she let those who did into the house."

"Why?"

"I don't know all the details."

"Tell me what you know."

"Sorry, but the rules…"

"Please."

He sighed and nodded. He knew a few details. "She was seeing a man…and she believed the political police wanted to arrest him for being a Communist. So they tried, he ran, they shot him dead."

"She loved him?"

"Perhaps."

"Revenge, she wanted, on my husband?"

"It seems so."

"But Margot…." she started but her voice caught.

"We believe you and the children were supposed to be gone."

"Yes, we were. We came back, to my everlasting regret. What else do you know?"

"Supposedly a second man made the bomb, placed it."

"Who were they ?"

"I don't know their names."

She nodded and then was silent for a while, and then looked as if she thought of something. "She was crying."

"Who?"

"Greta. She was crying. I thought it was because of a man. I thought he had jilted her. She said nothing about him dying. Did my husband's men kill this person she was seeing?"

"I don't know. I am afraid that is all I know. It is not my case."

"Herr Gennat has explained this. But I want it to be your case. You are a real detective, not an ex-soldier playing at one." That was a clear dig at Wendt.

"I can't take a case the political department is working on."

"Then privately…for me…for us." As she said this she reached for her son's hand and he took hers.

"I'm sorry, but…"

"I do not trust Herr Wendt, " she said, her tone strong, getting angry. "Today…the church…the President. All that was Wendt's idea I am sure. He claims the President insisted on being there. I was only told an hour before. No time to stop it. The spectacle, the press, at their funeral!"

Now she was really mad, her eyes glistening with new tears, and he understood why. He found himself speaking before he knew it. "I will do what I can to find whoever killed your family members."

"Promise me," she said, almost a plea. "You are a good man, my husband always said. A good Catholic. Please. Promise me."

"I promise."

Later he talked to Gennat and told him what Frau Benda wanted. He agreed, but warned him to be discrete. He then told Gereon all of what Greta had told him in that one and only interrogation he had with her.

Later Gereon walked to the tram stop and made a phone call from a public phone box to Charlotte at work. She was manning the phones while everyone was at the funeral and now he made plans to see her later to explain what was happening.

He then took the tram to the new apartment where he found Helga and Moritz already making decorating plans. He approved the choice and said he would borrow a police car to move their things tomorrow. Maybe it was time to get his own car, if his savings were enough. Then it was getting late and he went back to the office while they returned to the hotel to pack.

As he sat on the tram he thought of what he promised Frau Benda. He would have to do this on the side, without Wendt every knowing. For that he needed someone to help him…Charlotte.

* * *

**Charlotte**

The murder squad office was nearly empty, as was the whole building. Most of them were at Herr Benda's funeral. Gereon suggested she come as well but she felt it would be wrong, as her friend Greta was accused of killing Benda and his daughter. Gennat overheard them talking as the detectives prepared to leave for the funeral that morning. He told her to stay, answer the phones, take messages, and send word if there was something they needed to deal with.

So now she was all alone in the office. She finished the murder report for Franz Muller first and put it on Gereon's desk for him to look over and sign. Then she was bored. She found a newspaper and sat at a desk looking through the ads, looking at apartments to rent. Most of the places were too posh, the rent well above her pay grade. But one caught her eye. A room to share above a bar. Eight marks a week. Only three blocks away. Perfect. She called the number, but got no answer. She wrote down the number and address and would check later.

Her stomach rumbled. Lunch time but she could not leave the office untended. Luckily she had run into Doris, who promised to run out and get some sandwiches and drinks for them. And sure enough just then she came in with a large sack in hand. Charlotte paid her what was owned. As they ate at an empty desk, Charlotte told her about Gennat's plan.

"He wants me to finish cataloguing the murder files. You in?"

"What? Sure," Doris said with bright eyes. "That will take ages. More money for us."

"For you mainly. I will be busy mostly, will help where I can."

"Fine with me."

Just then a woman came in, the same one who had paid her yesterday. She had a large file in hand and was followed by a young guy carrying a large box with many envelopes in it. The woman stopped, a look of frustration on her face.

"Where are they?"

"The funeral," Charlotte told her.

"Right, the funeral. God. It will be madness later," the woman mumbled. "You're Ritter, right?"

"Yes."

"Pay day. Come sign this."

Charlotte signed for her five days of pay. Sixty marks, minus some for her pension and insurance. Still, more money in hand.

"What about me?" Doris asked the woman.

"You are part time?"

"Yes," Doris said with a mournful sound.

"You know you must come to accounting. As usual for part-timers."

"No," Charlotte said suddenly. "Please. We want her full time, here in the murder squad as a steno/typist."

Doris looked at her with wide eyes.

"You have no authority to make this request, Fraulein Ritter," the accountant said.

"Councilor Gennat asked me to find someone to help us."

"Then he must make the request through personnel."

"Good. I will ask him."

The woman and her assistant left. Doris looked at her with amazement. "Really? Full time?"

"Of course. You helped me once. Without you I would never be here. I am returning the favor."

"Wonderful!" Doris said and she gave Charlotte a hug.

They finished their lunch and Doris ran to get her pay. When she came back she stayed in the office to watch the phones and do some typing while Charlotte ran off to the library. It was time to study.

The police library was a small affair on the third floor. An older man in glasses ran it. He was dressed in a stiff suit and bow tie, and had the air of a guard at a bank.

"May I help you?" he asked, his voice quite deep.

"Yes, I need these books." She handed over the list Gennat had given her.

The librarian looked it over, then looked above the top of his glasses at her in suspicion. "These are the books for the detective's exam. Only the person taking the exam may check these out. Who do you work for?"

"Yes, that's me. I mean, I am taking the books. For me."

"Sorry?"

"I am taking the detective's exam in four months. I need to study."

Again he looked at her in suspicion, and Charlotte thought 'oh, no', not another one. Too many people had given her the same look since she had become an assistant detective.

He looked down at a piece of paper on his desk, ran his finger down a list of names, stopped, looked up.

"Charlotte Ritter?"

"Yes," she said and handed over her ID before he could asked. He looked at it, nodded, handed it back.

"Very well, Criminal Assistant Ritter. The police library books must not be taken out of the building. You may check out four at a time, to study here or in your office. Nowhere else. And please do not eat or drink around the books. And no ashes either. I know you young ladies like to smoke these days. Please remember others will be taking the exam. We only have a few copies of each book so endeavor to share them with your classmates."

"Yes, I will. Have any of them been here yet?" She didn't know who would be in her class.

"No, you are the first. Pick four books, please."

"Ah…what do you suggest?"

He seemed to like this question and smiled slightly. "I would start with these two books on criminal law and the penal code. You must know the rules and regulations, of course."

"Of course."

"And this one on fingerprints as well. Plus, hmmm, yes, methods of interrogation. A must for any detective."

"What about Councilor Gennat's books?"

The librarian made a sour face. "First build the basement before the house, I always say. Herr Gennat's books are for those who breathe the rarefied air of criminal theory. You must have a solid background before you can climb so high. So, I will get these four for you."

Ten minutes later she was back in the office, where Doris sat at a typewriter doing some work. "No calls," she told Charlotte.

"Thank you."

"Can I stay here and finish?" Doris asked.

"Of course. I will be in Herr Rath's office."

She stopped typing. "So…Herr Rath. Married, yes?"

Charlotte sighed. "Yes."

"Too bad."

"Yeah. Too bad."

She sat at his desk and could smell his tobacco and aftershave from where he sat there in the morning before going to the funeral. He had told her he was meeting his family there, as all police personnel were to make a route of honor for Herr Benda's hearse near the church.

No, I mustn't think of him, she told herself. But she could not help it. All her feelings were still there. And she had no one to talk to. Not even Doris would she trust with this, though Doris seemed to already sense she had feelings for Gereon.

She opened the book on criminal law and began to read, hoping to pass the time at least. An hour later Doris was gone, and then the phone rang. It was Gereon.

"All is well?" he asked.

"Yes. You're the first caller."

"Good. What are you up to?"

"Studying for my exam. How was it?" she asked

She could hear him sigh. "Not good."

Funerals never were. "Are you coming in?" she asked after a moment.

"Soon. Maybe around two. I need to speak to you."

"About?"

"Not over the phone. "

"Okay."

He hung up, leaving Charlotte curious about what it was all about. At two o'clock she would find out. Before that most of them came back, all in their best suits, looking fine, but downcast. She saw Henning and Czerwinski first, both busy loosening their neckties.

"So?" she asked.

"As usual," Henning said.

Czerwinski gave him a look. "As usual he says. How often does the Reich President appear at a funeral?"

"Hindenburg? He was there?" Charlotte asked in amazement.

"Yes," said Henning. "Comforting the widow."

"He made a speech," Czerwinski added. "We must be strong in these troubled times…something like that. Nothing new here?"

"No. Oh, pay day is today. The accountant was already here."

"Damn!" Henning cursed and he and Czerwinski flew out the door. Soon others got the idea and once again the office was nearly empty, all heading for accounting.

Gennat came in and headed straight for her. "All is well?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good," he said and then he looked around. "Where is everyone?"

"Pay day."

"Ah. So it is." But he did not run, just walked into his office and sat at his desk and lit a cigar. Charlotte felt it was not the right time to ask about Doris. It would have to wait.

She saw Gereon come in a bit later and as he took off his coat and hat he nodded towards his office. Once inside he shut the door and they sat down and he leaned forward in a conspiratorial way.

"We have a new case," he said quietly.

"Oh? Who?"

"Herr Benda and his daughter."

That was a surprise. "What? I thought Councilor Wendt had it."

"He does," Gereon said. "But Herr Benda's wife asked me after the funeral. I know her, met her once. She asked me to look into it, find the truth. I told her I could not, as it is not my case. She begged me…I could not refuse her on this day. So I promised to do all I could."

Charlotte smiled. He would never let anyone down if he could help it. "Good. Where do we start ?"

"By telling no one we are doing this. But I had to tell Gennat and he approved. So, officially it is the political department's case. Unofficially, we will also investigate. We start with Greta Overbeck. We need to know exactly what happened. Councilor Gennat gave me the gist of his interrogation."

He quickly told her all Gennat had said, about two young men, Fritz and Otto. How she fell in love with Fritz, and then how Greta thought he was killed by police bullets, only to turn up alive, and how she thought they were Communists, but turned out to be Nazis. It was all so bewildering.

"But it would be better fresh from her," Gereon said. "I need you to visit her and question her."

"But…I am not a detective," Charlotte reminded him. "I am not supposed to question suspects without you present."

"In this case we will make an exception. If I visit the prison Wendt might get word of it."

"Okay. What is the routine for visiting inmates?"

"You have to go to the prison and fill in a visitor request form card. Then they will approve or not approve. Visiting times vary, but usually only on certain days or the weekend. And the prisoner must be willing to speak to you."

"She will. She's my friend."

"Good. Above all you cannot tell the prison people why you are there. You are just visiting a friend."

"Understood."

Then he noticed the Muller murder case report form on his desk. He picked it up, read as she waited, hoping he approved. Finally he nodded, but had words of caution.

"It's fine. But it doesn't need to be so wordy," he said. "Short, concise sentences. What we saw, what we found, what was said, what we believe happened."

She reached for the paper. "I'll do it again."

"No, it's okay," he said as he signed the report at the bottom, then looked at her. "Did you type up the witness statements?"

She hadn't. "Damn. Sorry."

"You have time now."

"What about Greta?"

"Tomorrow. Gennat wants this report."

"Right." She was about to leave, then had a thought. "We need a full time steno/typist."

"Oh?"

"If I am going to be going on cases and studying for my exams I won't be able to do all this other work as well. And I am now an assistant detective, not a secretary."

He agreed. "Right. You will be busy. Okay. Do you know someone?"

"Yes."

"Gennat must approve."

"He will. He knows her. My friend Doris."

"Don't ask today. Tomorrow he will be in a better mood. Okay?"

"Fine." She was about to leave again when he stopped her.

"Your suitcase is still here."

She sighed. "Yes. Sorry. I am looking at a place tonight. It will be gone tomorrow, I promise."

He grinned. "Fine. I am moving tomorrow, too. Helga…she…ah…"

"Your wife?"

"Ah…yes. She found an apartment for us. Something more permanent than the hotel we are in now. She found one she likes. I saw it and…so we are moving."

"Staying in Berlin? Not back to Cologne?"

"Yes. We are staying in Berlin."

"Good," she said and she smiled and he smiled and then she had to get the hell out of there before she did or said something to shatter the illusion that they were just co-workers and nothing more. She was in love but had no idea how he felt about her. Best to leave it alone.

After she finished the witness reports she gave them to Gereon and he told her to go, find her new place, and he wished her luck. She said the same to him and then took off. For now she left her suitcase behind, in case it didn't work out.

The bar was a bit low class but cozy enough, small with a few tables and a bar, with a kitchen in back. A sleepy looking sort of handsome young guy was behind the bar, pouring a large glass of ale for one of his few customers at this time of day.

"Good day, Fraulein," the young bartender said with a roguish grin. "How can I help you?"

"I want to see the room you advertised," she said.

He nodded. "Very good. Eight marks a week, two weeks up front."

"I'll see the room first, thank you."

He shouted. "Ethel! Someone for the room!"

A young girl came out of the kitchen area. She was maybe not much older than Charlotte's sister Toni but had a serious cast to her face. She gave Charlotte an appraising look. "You have a job?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No deadbeats," she said. "My father owns this bar and the apartment upstairs. He told me to not take on any deadbeats. So, what do you do?"

Charlotte pulled out her badge. "Charlotte Ritter. Criminal Assistant, Berlin Police, Homicide."

All went quiet. The bar man and the girl stared at her. "Really?" Ethel said and Charlotte sighed and pulled out her ID card. That satisfied them.

"Show her the room, Ethel," the barman said with a grin.

"Yeah, show her the room, Ethel," a drunk at a corner table added.

"Shut up!" Ethel snarled at them. "Come on," she said to Charlotte.

The room was not a palace but not too bad either. It had a big bed, a table and chairs, a sofa, a stove and sink. A bit dusty but she could take care of that.

"Toilet is on ground floor," the girl said. "No bath or shower I am afraid. There is a public bath around the corner."

"Good. So…the ad said room to share?"

"Yes, with a man, who works mostly nights. You work days?"

"Mostly."

"Well, he gets the room in the morning and early afternoon, you the rest. Be out by 8 AM. Okay?"

"Sure. What about Sundays?"

"Same."

"Fine. I'll take it." It would do for now, and she could always find something else later.

She signed a lease form and handed over two weeks rent. "The keys will be behind the bar. One set only. You can move in later."

"Good. I'll be back in a few hours."

Ethel stared at her. "So…catch any murderers?"

"Yes. One yesterday."

The girl gaped at her. "Really? Who did he kill?"

"She killed her husband. See you later."

Now she had one more thing to do. Face her family. It was time.

First she bought a peace offering, two bags of food at the local shop. Sausages, bread, milk, tea, some apples, some tinned fish, potatoes, carrots, and so on. The bags were heavy and she was glad to finally reach the third floor apartment where she had spent most of her life. Glad but tense. Her leaving had not been good, a fight with her sister and her idiot lazy husband.

She knocked and he answered. Maybe he had been handsome once, but drink, smoking, and laziness in grooming had left him decidedly brutish and ugly.

Erich snorted when he saw her, the constant cigarette smoldering in his hand. "So…came crawling back, have we? Go away. This is not your home anymore."

"Erich!" Ilse said with a snarl from behind him before Charlotte could give him a piece of her mind. "Let her in. She has food."

He stepped back from the door and she went in. The baby was in Ilse's arms, her boy was on the floor playing with some wooden blocks, Grandpa in his chair as always. He seemed to grin when he saw her, but one could never tell what Grandpa was thinking these days.

"Where's Toni?" she asked as she put the food on the table. She leaned down and kissed Grandpa's rough unshaven cheek and he did grin.

"School," Ilse said as she looked at the bags. "Thank you."

Erich stood there while she and Ilse put away the food. He snickered at her. "So, been busy? Must have been. Look at all she brought us with her wages."

"Shut up," Ilse said. "You should thank her instead of being ungrateful."

"We need to talk," Charlotte said, ignoring Erich. "Alone."

Ilse nodded, handed the baby to Erich. "Come," she said.

"Get me cigarettes!" he shouted as they went out in the corridor.

"I'm sorry," Ilse said when alone on floor landing, the apartment door shut behind them.

"You should leave him."

"Easy for you to say. I have two children. Where will I go?"

"Is he at least looking for work?"

She shrugged. "So he says. But this week I started at the slaughterhouse. The foreman was good friends with momma. Three days a week to start. So now he says he must mind the children. He sits all day, does nothing. No cleaning, no cooking. Toni and I must do it all…now that you and momma are gone."

"I'm not gone," Charlotte said. She handed Ilse twenty marks. "For you and the children and Grandpa. Not him."

"Thank you," she said as she hid the money in her top. "So…how is work?"

"Good. I got a new job with the police." She pulled out her police badge.

"God…is it true? You're a copper?" Ilse asked in surprise. "I thought you just did typing and filing for them."

"Yes, at first, but now I am a Criminal Assistant. Murder squad, too."

"Good for you. At least you did something with your life." She cast her eyes down. "Sorry.. for all I said last time."

Then Charlotte hugged her sister. "So am I. For all I said in the past, too."

They separated before they became weepy. "I want to ask a favor," Charlotte said.

"Yes?"

"Toni…is she really at school?"

Ilse hedged, then shook her head. "No, she's at the cotton spinning factory."

"She comes with me."

"What?"

"I want her to live with me. I have a room near my work place. She can go to school, do something, be something. I will pay for it all."

"School is almost finished. Just a few weeks before summer break. It's too late to change schools."

"She can take the tram back here every morning. I'll make sure she goes and completes the grade. She can change to a closer school for September if she wants."

Ilse seemed about to argue, but then nodded. "Fine."

"Good. And I will give you money, twice a month when I get paid. I don't know how much yet. But I don't want to come back here. Do you know the police headquarters building?"

"Yes."

"I will meet you near there. I'll let you know when."

Ilse nodded, cast her eyes away again, seemed ashamed. "Sister," Charlotte said. "You are not alone."

"I will be when Toni leaves."

"It is for the best…for her. I will take care of her. You have enough to do."

"She helps me get through it all. Now, two babies, two useless men, me at work many days."

"Toni needs a better life."

Ilse finally nodded. "Yes. Okay. Let's do it your way for now. When?"

"I will get Toni on Sunday afternoon."

They said their goodbyes and Charlotte went back to headquarters to get her suitcase. When she got there, Bohm and the man she knew as Herr Ulrich from records were in Gennat's office and there seemed to be an argument going on.

"What's up?" she asked Henning and Czerwinski.

"About Father Joseph," Henning said.

"The priest in the cement," Czerwinski added. "Bohm's case. He says there is no evidence Bruno shot him. But Ulrich says the bullets that killed Stephan and the priest come from the same gun."

Gereon came out of his office. "Are they still at it?"

Gennat saw them and came to his door. "Herr Rath. Fraulein…ah…Ritter. Come, please."

They entered the office. "So," Gennat began. "Herr Rath, you took the bullet from the priest's autopsy directly to Herr Ulrich?"

"I did," Gereon said and Bohm snorted.

"He did and he signed the evidence received form," Ulrich said with a direct look to Bohm. "I examined the bullet, as I said weeks ago. The bullet is from a Lignose revolver. Exactly same as the one that killed Stephan Janicke. As I said weeks ago."

"A revolver which was never found," Bohm replied.

"The same gun killed both men," Ulrich shot back. "The evidence does not lie."

"But people do," Bohm said, his eyes on Gereon now. "Father Joseph was last seen at the Pepita Bar with you."

"Says who?" Gereon asked.

"The owner. And Bruno told me you two were at the Pepita Bar that same night. Well, were you?"

"Maybe so," Gereon admitted. "But I never met this Father Joseph. I had drunk a lot. We were at several bars."

"Yes, and I know why," Bohm continued. "I have heard what happened at Moka Efti earlier that night. Between you and Edgar Kasabian, the Armenian gangster."

"Stop," said Gennat. "If you are referring to the shootout, I know all about that. And why it happened. That is a political matter Herr Rath was working on."

"It directly impacts my case," Bohm said. "I want to know why he was there and why it happened?"

Gennat looked at Gereon and then nodded. "They were blackmailing politicians," Gereon said. "Important people in high places…with sex films. Bruno and I got a tip from an informant. He told us the films were hidden in a safe in Moka Efti. He was right. We took the films but were discovered leaving the place and there was a shootout and we got away. No one got hurt."

Wow, Charlotte thought. A shootout at Moka! Why hadn't she heard about it?

Bohm snorted in disbelief again. "Then why wasn't Kasabian arrested for holding these films?"

Gereon shook his head. "That is all I will say."

"It is enough," Gennat said. "The matter is political, the highest authorities know what it is concerned with, and it is closed. Now, Fraulein Ritter. Tell us what you found in Janicke's notebook. What did it say about Wolter and Father Joseph? What did Janicke suspect, if anything?"

"Sorry, sir. I found nothing about Wolter and the priest. The train robbery attempt of the Sorokin's gold seemed most important so I deciphered mainly that part."

"For this matter that is enough. We certainly know Bruno was involved in the robbery attempt. Perhaps he killed the priest and Stephan as well."

"Herr Councilor, there is no motive for him killing the priest," Bohm argued.

"Motive, you want motive," Gennat said. "Herr Rath and Wolter had just shot up the club. Kasabian sent Father Joseph to find them, kill them, get his blackmail material back. He found them at Pepita Bar. Herr Rath was drunk, Wolter sensed the danger, and took action. Not strictly by the book, mind you, but he did what needed doing."

"If it was a clean kill then why did he use a Lignose when that is not registered as his service revolver?" Bohm shot back. "Why didn't he report it? Why did he bury the body in the cement if he was defending himself?" All good questions, Charlotte thought.

Gennat had enough. "Maybe it was something else. Maybe they had a falling out. Maybe Bruno murdered him for his own reasons. We'll never know. Bruno's dead. The case of the priest in the cement is closed."

As Bohm continued to argue, saying how do they even know Bruno killed Stephan, like a huge bell ringing in her head, Charlotte suddenly remembered. Gereon, drunk, sitting by his door, grey stuff in his hair and on his face and on his suit…grey…cement? Dried cement!

And then…how did Gereon know Bruno killed Stephan? Something about the bullets…what had he said in the storage closet? He had used a bullet from the same gun to deflect suspicion from himself!

She looked at him, and he was looking at her, and she was sure he knew what she was thinking.

Gereon had killed the priest!


	4. Chapter 4

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 4**

**Gereon**

She knew. The look she gave him told him all. Charlotte stared at him and he knew what that look was saying. 'You killed the priest'. Then he turned away from the heart breaking look as Gennat spoke to him.

"Herr Rath, to ease Detective Sargent Bohm's mind, please explain again why you believe Wolter killed Janicke."

"Yes, Councilor," he began, happy for the distraction. "The red notebook he always carried is the key. It was not on his body or in his desk. So we can assume the killer took it. And I found it in Bruno's home, in a desk drawer. I gave it to Criminal Assistant Ritter to decipher as it was in shorthand."

Bohm looked at Charlotte. "Is this all true?"

"Yes, Detective Rath gave it to me here, asked me to decipher the shorthand," she replied, seemingly calm. "He told me where he had found it. And…I could hardly believe Bruno had it."

"Why did you suspect Bruno?" Bohm then asked Gereon. "He was your partner."

"I was informed after Stephan's death that Stephan was an internal investigator. Councilor Benda told me."

"Who was he investigating?" Ulrich asked. "Wolter?"

"Councilor Benda did not tell me exactly," Gereon told them. "Only that Stephan was tracking a nationalist assassination plot that I later suspected included Bruno. Now I am sure Stephan was investigating Wolter."

"How did Janicke know what they were doing?" Bohm asked. "How did he get close to them?"

"Stephan often acted as Wolter's driver," Gereon said. "So he knew where he was going and who he was meeting. As to how he knew what they spoke on, I am not sure."

"I might," Charlotte interrupted. "Stephan's parents are both deaf. He could read lips from afar and do sign language."

"This is true," Gennat said. "As is the assassination plot. Foiled by Herr Rath here."

"The incident at the opera house?" Bohm asked, looking at Rath in surprise, as was Ulrich. But Charlotte would not look at him now and inside he was breaking. He had to explain to her.

"Yes," Gereon said to Bohm, trying to keep his emotions in check. "And days before any of this happened I was with Bruno at a dinner party. Several high ranking military men were there. They had obvious nationalist leanings. Glorifying the war, the army, the Kaiser. Some of the same men we later arrested for the gas train and the airfield in Russia."

Gennat put a stop to it. "That is enough. We are getting into territory where we should not stick our noses. We are investigating murder, not politics. Herr Rath was right to suspect Wolter, especially after he found the notebook." He was looking at Bohm when he said this last but Bohm said nothing in reply. "So?" Gennat asked him. "Are you satisfied?"

"Not entirely," Bohm finally said. "I will not close the case on the priest. But as we are at a dead end, I must mark it as unsolved for now. Councilor, even you must admit the evidence is weak against Wolter, despite his possible motives for killing the priest. Especially with no way to directly tie him to the missing Lignose."

Gennat merely nodded. "Very well. As for Janicke, the evidence is also weak. Bruno had his notebook, and was involved with some despicable characters, but did Bruno pull the trigger on him and Father Joseph? We may never know now that Wolter is dead. You have made your point on both cases, Herr Bohm. Leave both cases open, marked unsolved. I will present them as such to the state attorneys tomorrow. Hopefully, in the future some new evidence will come our way. So, it has been a long day. Let us close the shop."

Bohm and Ulrich made their goodbyes and left the office, with Charlotte hot on their heels. She headed straight for Gereon's office and grabbed her suitcase. He got there and blocked the door just in time.

"Excuse me," she said without looking at him, trying to get past.

"We need to talk."

"About what?" she demanded, now glaring at him, her eyes fierce. "About how you lied and…"

"Sshhhh! I can explain."

She breathed deep, tried to calm herself. "Was it all lies?"

"No…some was…I…not here. Come…please."

She hesitated and then put her suitcase down and he left and she followed, all the way to the storage closet where he had first given her the notebook. Once inside with the door closed she stared at him with an accusing look. "Well?"

He breathed deeply and then spoke. "You wanted to know my dark secret? I think I killed the priest."

"Yeah, I have guessed as much," she shot back, then looked puzzled. "Wait. Think you killed him?"

He spoke fast before he lost her. "After Moka Efti we burned the films and went for a drink. But we didn't have that much. At least I don't remember. They must have drugged us, at the Pepita Bar. Slipped something into our drinks. I remember nothing but bits and pieces. Waking up for a brief moment in a car. Then I was in a strange room with a strange man in white talking to me. The priest was there also. I ran and the priest followed me…I thought he was going to kill me, maybe worked for Kasabian. We had destroyed his blackmail films."

"He does work for the Armenian, Herr Kasabian. Did, I mean. I saw the dried cement on your suit and face that morning you told me to get lost. You buried him?"

"Maybe. I remember hardly anything. But I must have. When I awoke I saw my suit's condition. Later I burned it."

"But the bullet in the priest must have been from your gun. You don't have a Lignose, do you?"

"No. Dreyse 1907. And later I realized one bullet was missing."

"So… Gereon…God…did you…switch the bullets?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice lowered. "For one from a Lignose. Bruno took the Lignose from an informant who took a shot at me and missed. He gave me the bullet as a souvenir of Berlin. I slipped it into the evidence envelope and took my Dreyse bullet they pulled from the priest and tossed it."

She just stared at him, a range of emotions playing across her face. "You destroyed evidence," she finally said, the look of disappointment clear to see.

"I know it is not a good introduction into how the police work," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

"You think?" she said in her best sarcastic tone. "Gereon…I…" Finally, she sighed. "Father Joseph. I saw him around Moka sometimes. Not a nice guy. Everyone in that world was terrified of him. I heard he killed many."

"Yeah, I heard as well."

"He will not be missed."

"No."

And then it dawned on her. "So Bruno kept the Lignose?"

"Must have. The bullet I gave Ulrich came from the same gun that killed…"

"Stephan! Then Bruno really did shoot him! You told me that day, in here, about using a bullet to deflect suspicion from yourself and that's why you thought Bruno had killed him!"

"Yes. Now you know what I meant. And we can never tell anyone. I would be lost, Charlotte. Executed or worse. Our kind does not survive long in prison."

She looked at him in surprise. "Of course I would never tell anyone!"

He sighed in relief. "Good."

Then she had a question. "Where is the Lignose?"

"No idea. If Bruno was smart he tossed it."

She sighed. "We can never tell them the truth, so Stephan's murder will go unsolved."

"Yes. Sorry, but there it is."

An awkward silence fell between them. She spoke first. "Your new apartment. Is it good?"

"Yes. Very good."

"Good."

"And you?"

"Not bad. I must go move in."

She moved towards the door but he touched her arm, stopped her. "Charlotte. Thank you. I will never forget this."

She smiled slightly. "I expect you to be the best boss in the world."

"Of course."

She nodded. "Good evening…Detective Rath."

"Good evening. Criminal Assistant Ritter…homicide."

"Homicide," she said with a grin and then it fell, and she looked at him. "Never lie to me again."

"Never," he promised and then she was gone.

He had been barely holding on and now, as the door closed behind her, he collapsed to the floor, breathed deeply, felt his nerves stretched, an episode, no, no, calm yourself, breath…yes…yes.

Lies, so many lies. He was lying to the whole world, about his non-existent marriage, about the priest, about his father, about Anno. His whole life was built on lies. And then there was the last one… how he felt about Charlotte. He tried to control his feelings but it was a losing battle. When he saw the look she gave him when she realized he had killed the priest it was like a dagger in the heart. And then he knew he was falling in love with her.

* * *

**Charlotte**

Saturday was a work day for most Germans. Charlotte awoke early to prepare for work. And she had to get out early to leave her new apartment for the day tenant. She had slept in his bedding and did not like it at all. That was the first thing she would do with her recent pay, buy new sheets and blankets and pillows.

But first she went to the women's prison. After a quick breakfast and coffee at a nearby café, she took the subway and then an above ground tram to the prison's location. As she travelled she thought on all that had happened yesterday, especially about Gereon.

Despite her disappointment in Gereon for his lies, she understood why he had done so. She knew he was not perfect, had known since the first moment she had met him, shaking and vulnerable in the men's toilet. Still, her hero worship of him was taken down a notch or two. Then she remembered she had her own secrets, secrets he knew and would keep. She was not perfect either, and had a past life that would get her fired if found out. And she also remembered how he had saved her life. She owed him her silence for that above all.

She arrived at the prison and looked at the imposing wall enclosed stone building. But for the grace of God or good luck, or both, I never ended up here, she thought. But her friend Greta had and Charlotte could still hardly believe it.

She finished a cigarette she had been smoking, then walked up to the entrance and knocked on the wide white solid metal gate. A young male guard slid open a small porthole in the gate.

"State your business," he said, very serious.

"I wish to visit a prisoner." She did not show her badge as Gereon had warned her to be discrete.

The gate opened and she stepped inside. "Open your bag," the guard said after he closed and locked the gate. Another guard stood by, keeping an eye on her. She opened her hand bag and the first guard had a quick look inside and then seemed satisfied she was not carrying an arsenal and was here to break out the prisoners. "Over there, that door," he said as he pointed. "Enter and fill in a visitor request form."

Inside was a small room with some benches and a barred door at the far end. A small counter was manned by a middle aged woman dressed in black.

"Good morning," Charlotte said with a smile. The woman just stared at her, as if she was something that was irritating her. "Yes, so. I would like to visit a prisoner."

The woman slowly picked up a pencil and small piece of paper and handed them to Charlotte. "Write down your name, date and place of birth, your telephone number, the prisoner's name, and your relationship to her."

Charlotte quickly completed it, giving the bar's phone number. It would not due to have the prison calling her at work where someone might overhear what she was doing. She finished the information by writing she was Greta's friend. The woman took the paper and read it, then looked at Charlotte.

"Rarely are friends granted visiting rights," the woman said.

"We are close."

The woman shrugged. "As you wish. I will make the request, but do not expect anything. We will call you in a day or two with the results. If approved you will be given a day and time to visit."

"Good. Thank you." As Charlotte left she knew this would be harder than she thought it would be. Do this, do that, wait some, maybe yes, maybe no, we are not sure.

At the murder squad office in police headquarters she found it quiet. Few people were present as there had been a call about a dead body and Bohm's team took the case. There were three main teams for the murder squad. Each team consisted of a lead detective, two other detectives as investigators, a criminal assistant, and a part time steno/typist as needed. She heard they also had police dogs if they were searching for someone or something. It would be nice to be teamed with a police dog.

The three teams took weekly turns being the lead team if there was a murder call. The other two teams were backups in case of multiple cases. Which was often, she learned. They were the only professional murder squad in the capital region, on call to go anywhere. Berlin was a big city, with almost three hundred murders per year on average. Some were related to street crime, others to domestic violence, as she saw with the Muller case, and others were part of the violence between criminal gangs. And then there were the political ones, like the Russian in the canal. The very odd and rare ones were what Herr Gennat coined special cases, which included serial killers, like the Butcher of Hanover.

"What happened?' she asked Henning and Czerwinski, disappointed her team had missed the case this time. She craved action.

"Drunken brawl at a bar in Mitte last night," Czerwinski told her.

"Body found in a nearby alley this morning," Henning added. "Might be from the brawl."

"Oh," was all she said. It didn't sound very interesting. Men fighting when drunk. Nothing new there.

She saw Gereon in his office and entered. "Morning," she said.

"Morning," he replied, a cigarette in hand. "Sit. You're a bit late."

"I went to the woman's prison," she said as she sat across from him.

He seemed to perk up. "And?"

"It's a slow procedure. Make a request and wait. And rarely do friends get in, I was told."

He nodded. "Well, let's wait and see what happens."

"What else can we do?"

"Not much," he said in frustration. "These names Fraulein Overbeck gave, Fritz and Otto. Might be aliases. But how can we know for certain?"

"What about checking with Communist and Nazi groups? Membership files, that sort of thing."

He shook his head. "Not sure they have such. And they are very mistrustful. If they find out we are police…not good. Especially after the May first events. Now they are being hounded because some new Communist group no one has ever heard of claimed they killed Herr Benda."

"That sounds like smoke and mirrors, a trick."

"Yes, I agree," Gereon replied. "Another distraction from the truth. And we may not have these men's real names and we don't know what they look like."

All true. "Right. So what about the evidence from the Benda home?"

"Nothing much," he said. "Herr Ulrich gave Gennat the bomb report. Dynamite with a contact fuse." He explained what that meant and how it was hard to track the source of the explosives.

"What about fingerprints?" Charlotte asked.

"Only the family and the maid. So, for now we are stalled."

"Well, I am here. I must do something. Time to study."

"Did you ask Gennat about your friend working for us?"

"Oh! I forgot!" She stood and looked through the glass wall towards the glass wall of Gennat's office. "He's not in."

"Later then. By the way, I need your new address and phone number. And you need to tell personnel as well."

She had no phone but the bar downstairs did. "Yes, here." She quickly wrote it down for him.

"We are the on call team for all next week so do not stray far from your phone at night."

"Right. Good," she said. Nights too she might be working. Then came a thought. "Hey, do we get overtime if there is a case at night?"

He shook his head. "Your wages are your wages now you are full-time."

"Oh," she said, unable to hid her disappointment. Full-time was still better than what she had before. It was security, with insurance, health care, and a pension. It was the future. For the first time in her life she had a possible future.

She then made her way to personnel. It was busy with the workers all at their desks. Charlotte approached the head woman. "I need to change my address and phone number."

The busy distracted woman waved to a row of file drawers. "Find your personnel file and change them yourself," she said. "You know what to do."

"Yes."

Charlotte walked over to the drawers and found the one for the Rs. Inside she quickly found her file, took it out and opened it and found her personal information sheet. With a pencil she scratched out the address she had typed a few days ago and wrote the new address and added the phone number. She was about to put the file back when a paper slipped out and fell to the floor. She quickly bent, picked it up, and saw what it was as she stood. A recommendation letter from Gereon. It was done in hand. After a moment of hesitation when she thought it was wrong, her curiosity got the best of her and she quickly read it.

"_I am writing to offer my recommendation for steno/typist Charlotte Ritter to be given the position of Criminal Assistant in the murder squad of the Berlin police force. In the past few weeks she has been an invaluable addition to my murder squad team. Fraulein Ritter has played a key role in investigating the events surrounding the Russian train incident. At times she has risked her own life to aid this investigation, going above and beyond her normal duties as a steno/typist. She has a keen mind and is hard working. She also has a pleasant personality, making it easy for her to fit in wherever she works. It would therefore be in the best interests of the Berlin police to make Charlotte Ritter a full-time Criminal Assistant in the murder squad_."

At the bottom he signed his name and gave his rank.

She was floored. It was so nice, so generous, but also very true. She smiled a bit and then a shout took her out of her mind.

"Fraulein Ritter, are you done?" the head woman asked in a nasty tone. "We would surely like you to stay and help us, but I am also sure the murder squad needs your valuable secretarial skills just as much as we do."

Another dig, but Charlotte felt too good and so ignored her. "Yes, I am done," was all she said and she put the file away and left, smiling as she did so.

The rest of the morning was spent studying for her exam at a small desk in the murder squad room. At noon she went to the nearby Aschinger restaurant with her team for lunch. She got some fried fish and potatoes with a glass of beer. The place was busy as they served good food at a low price. As they ate the team members spoke on their own detective exam experiences.

"Four years ago," Czerwinski said. "I was in vice, with Bruno. Didn't like it. Too much scum. I asked for a transfer to murder when they made the squad as a separate force in '25. Gennat says take the exam. I said, I am already a detective for five years. But he would not budge. So, I took it…and failed first time. Second time, got it."

Charlotte felt worried knowing a full time detective had failed. She looked at Henning. "And you?"

"Never took it."

They all stared at him. "What?" Czerwinski said in anger. "Never took it?"

"I'm an old timer, as you know," Henning said. "Sixteen years on the job. I was there when Gennat started bugging the higher ups for a murder squad after the war. There was no exam in those days, not even a separate murder squad yet. Just Gennat with a small rotating team of detectives from every department called out for any murders. I was in robbery, he asked me to join him full-time, and so I did. Bohm too at that time. We learned as we went. Mostly from our mistakes."

"No exam!" Czerwinski said in anger. "I should tell him to make you take the exam with these youngsters!"

Gereon had a small chuckle over this. Now Charlotte looked to him. "And you, detective?"

Gereon took a sip of beer from his glass and then spoke. "Ten years ago I came home from France and joined the police school in Cologne."

"You were in the war?" Henning asked.

"Just the last few months. Anyway, so I joined the school, graduated in six months, and became a police officer. It was good, I enjoyed it, being a street cop. But my father…my father…he is the police commissioner for Cologne, he had high ambitions for me. Wanted me to be a detective. And what my father wanted, he got. So I studied, took our exam, and passed, of course. Worked mostly robbery and vice."

"And now murder," Charlotte said, then she looked at him in a sly way. "Wait. You took the Cologne detective exam. You never took Gennat's exam!"

Gereon smiled. "So…good lunch?"

"Hey!" Czerwinski said with anger. "Am I the only one here who took the Buddha's damn exam?"

"Appears so," said Gereon. "So Charlotte, he's your man. Any questions direct to Detective Czerwinski."

They had a good laugh over that and even Czerwinski managed a grin.

"Well," Gereon finally said. "The Muller case. All paper work done and evidence examined?"

They all said yes. "Good. Charlotte, collect all the documents and prepare the file for the state attorney's office. Deliver it on Monday. You know how to do that?"

She was uncertain. "Ah…"

"We will help her, boss," Henning said.

"Good. All done?" Gereon asked.

They took last bites of food and gulps of drinks while Gereon called for the check. He pulled out his money and began to pay for all of them.

"No, no," Czerwinski and Henning both said in protest as they tried to pull out their wallets.

"Stop," Gereon said. "My treat for my team. Next time it's your turn. Okay?"

Henning and Czerwinski reluctantly agreed. Charlotte felt uneasy. Next time she might have to pay for four lunches! It wasn't that pricey here, but she would have to keep an eye on her money.

Back in the office she collected the Muller case information. Witness statements, the wife's confession statement, the statements from the police officers who first answered the call, the photos Herr Graf had taken, the autopsy report (death by stabbing and loss of blood, no surprise there), and…damn. She realized that the evidence report for the Muller case was missing. She needed the reports about the fingerprints and blood from the scene. Gereon told her to check with Ulrich in records.

The records office was a small affair on the third floor. Inside was a counter and behind it was a small desk. On the wall were many posters of fingerprints and so on. A young man seated at the desk was examining a set of fingerprints with a magnify glass. He had slightly wavy hair and wore glasses. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.

"Good day, Fraulein," he said as he stood. "Kasper Weishaupt at your service. How may I help?"

She couldn't help but smile back. "Good day, Herr Weishaupt. I am Criminal Assistant Charlotte Ritter. I have…"

"Ah, yes," he said with enthusiasm as he came to the counter. "You have joined the murder squad."

"Yes. And I am here for the evidence report on the Franz Muller case."

"Sorry. It is not ready," said Weishaupt, seemingly sad to disappoint her.

"Oh. Why not?"

Ulrich appeared in a doorway leading to another room. "Fraulein Ritter, we of the records department move at our own pace. We take care and time to get things perfectly right. As the murder took place only two days ago, you cannot expect miracles of us. Your report will be ready on Monday."

She knew better than to protest. "Good. Thank you, Herr Ulrich. See you Monday."

After she told Gereon he shrugged and said they would have to wait. Ulrich ran his little kingdom his way and better not to get on his wrong side, advised Henning and Czerwinski.

Charlotte looked for Gennat to ask about Doris being full time but he was not in sight again. Bohm's team returned a short time later, and the word was it was not an easy case. Male, maybe early twenties, beaten badly, dead in an alley. No name to go with the body yet. There was brawl at a nearby pub, but no witnesses. Bar man saw nothing, his serving girls saw nothing. Everyone was silent.

"No one wants to talk," she heard Bohm grumble to his team.

"Typical," Czerwinski said. "They hate coppers in some neighborhoods."

"Most," Henning corrected him. "Maybe all. Charlotte, best tell few what you do."

"Yes, I am beginning to see why," she said.

Gereon waved her over to his office. "There is not much else to do here today. So, you are free."

"Good," she said with a smile. "See you Monday. Have a nice weekend."

"You as well," he replied with a warm smile for her.

Charlotte grabbed her things, including two of the library books she wasn't supposed to take home. The hell with the rules. She had a lot to catch up on. She flew out the door before anyone could change their mind. Down the hall she ran into Doris.

"Sorry, I didn't ask about the job yet," she said in a rush. "The boss was not in all day."

"I know," Doris said. "Big meeting upstairs. I was steno."

Charlotte stopped. "Big meeting? Who?"

Doris rolled her eyes. "Lotte! You know I can't."

"Please!"

Doris sighed, looked around, and then spoke. "Gennat, Wendt, and Zorgiebel. And the state attorney's reps. A team of lawyers. Five of them. Also, someone from Hindenburg's office!"

"Really? What was it about?"

"You guys! You and Herr Rath. And Wolter, and the train, and Stephan, and Herr Benda, and your friend Overbeck. Everything!"

"Tell me more."

"No! Enough, Lotte! You want me to get fired?"

"No, of course not. Sorry."

"One thing I can tell you," Doris said, even quieter, though no one was around. "Wendt is an arrogant ass!"

Charlotte had to laugh at that. "So I could guess."

"Did you have lunch?" Doris asked.

"Yeah, a while ago. On my way out now. Boss gave me the rest of the day off. See you Monday. We'll see Herr Gennat then, okay?"

"Yes. Bye!"

Wow, big meeting indeed. She could guess what it was about. Presenting evidence to the state attorneys. They had to decide what charges to lay and if there was enough evidence to make a case.

Now she was free but could not go home till after seven. It was cheap but sharing this apartment was going to be a pain.

She went shopping first, getting some new bed sheets at a department store. Blankets and pillows would have to wait as they were too bulky and heavy to carry around. She would send Toni out on Monday.

Her travels took her past Moka Efti. She stood outside for a moment, thinking of going in and saying hi to the girls. But no. The last time she was here they had kept her prisoner, chained to a wall, then stuffed into an icy hell. They had threatened her sister. She would never set foot in there again.

She had a plate of pasta and a glass of beer in a cafe nearby home and when it neared seven she made her way home at last. Tomorrow was Sunday. A day to rest and to be reunited with her sister.

* * *

**Kasabian**

She wanted it, he knew, but it made him nervous. Edgar Kasabian had his hand in many ventures, some legal, many not. These businesses he knew well, how to take advantage and make a profit. Now his wife was asking him to invest in a movie project, a business he knew little about.

They were seated on sofas in his main office in Moka Efti. From below he could already feel the beat of the music as the Saturday night partying got underway. One of the waitresses served them drinks and left. With Edgar was his wife Esther and the producer of the planned movie, Jo Bellman.

"The 'Demon of Passion'," Bellman said with enthusiasm. "It will be a great hit!"

Edgar had no idea what he was talking about. "A musical stage play, very successful," Esther said quickly after seeing his confusion.

"If it is already on stage, why would anyone go to a movie about it?" Edgar asked.

"Herr Kasabian, the difference between the stage and a film…well, it is huge," explained Bellman. "Film can capture the emotion, the passion, with close ups and editing, and fill an audience with wonder far better than a stage play. And a stage play is on only one stage one or two times a day. A film can be shown in many places many times a day. It increases the profitability enormously. It is like night and day."

"But a silent day," Edgar replied.

"No, not anymore, dear," Esther told him. "The latest technology. Sound! Movies with sound! And talking!"

"Really?" Edgar replied. "Now that is interesting."

"Yes," Bellman said eagerly. "And I have two of our top actors lined up to star. Betty Winter and Tristan Rot!"

Edgar had heard of them. Husband and wife, though his sources told him the husband liked to stray a bit, and the arms of another man was where he strayed.

"Good," Edgar said. "But costly, I imagine."

"Well," Bellman said with a smile of a man who desperately wanted to sell him something. "The best does cost."

"How much in total?" Edgar asked. "Let's get to the point."

"A million marks…maybe two," Bellman said after a brief moment of hesitation.

The cost shook him. "A million? Maybe two?"

"Definitely two," Esther said.

Bellman looked to protest but then nodded. "Yes, two million marks."

Edgar nodded. "When would you need it?"

"Soon," Esther told him. "The American studios, they want Betty, badly. We must tie her to a contract or she will be gone."

"Yes," said Bellman. "If she goes, so does Tristan."

Edgar saw their point. "And so we make the movie, we show it, it's a hit. Then how much return on my investment should I expect?"

"The sky is the limit!" Bellman replied with even more enthusiasm.

"Or its nothing," Edgar said. "Tell me, Herr Bellman, what percentage of profit did your last movie make?"

He hesitated, then spoke. "Only 10% was recouped above the costs. A small profit."

"Very small."

Esther spoke up. "With Betty and Tristan it will sure to be a hit!"

"Nothing is sure," Edgar said. "So, who else gets a piece of the pie? If it is successful."

"The studio that distributes it," said Esther. "And the producer of course. Sometimes the director. Rarely the actors."

He knew that much. Esther had been an actress for ten years before their marriage and the children came. Rarely had she made big money, even when she was a star in the early 20s.

"No studio this time," Bellman said. "That is why I need an investor. Studios tell you what to shoot and want all your profits."

He could understand that. "What is your cut?" Edgar asked Bellman.

"Depends on how well we negotiate with the theater owners and…"

"How much of what is left?"

"Fifty percent of all remaining receipts."

"Fifty?" Edgar said in surprise.

"It is normal, dear," Esther told him.

He looked back at Bellman. "That means you get fifty percent, whether there is a profit or not?"

"Yes. Like Esther says, it is quite normal."

"If say we only make one million after the theater gets it share. So, you get half and I get half?" Edgar asked.

"Yes," Bellman admitted, sounding and looking uneasy now under Edgar's suspicious stare and tone. "But we will make much more!"

Edgar ignored his attempt to paint a rosy picture. "So I don't get my two million back unless we get…what, four million? Only after that I will see a profit for my investment. And we have to pay tax on all this money, too. And the theater owners might want too much. So…not good from my point of view."

"Yes, perhaps," Bellman replied. "But as we said, it is quite normal."

Normal for them, but not him. This would not do. "If I do this, then every mark and pfennig from our share goes to me until I have my money back, plus 60% of any profit. Only after I get my investment back do any other pockets get paid. Including yours."

Bellman was aghast. "Sixty percent! No, no. The split on profits should be fifty/fifty."

"No."

"Herr Kasabian. It is not done that way! I am the producer. I must find the director, the actors, the studio space, the technicians, everything, put it all together. All of the work I must do!"

"Yes, but with my money. So, those are the terms."

He turned to Esther. "My dearest Esther, please explain how this works."

She shrugged. "We have explained. It is what he wants. I told you he would be tough."

Bellman hummed and hawed. "I need to think," he finally said.

"Good," Edgar said and he stood, indicting the meeting was over. "I will think on this as well Herr Bellman. Esther will show you the way out." He shook Bellman's hand and then sat and finished his drink, waiting for Esther to return. Bellman seemed like a man who often got what he wanted. Not this time.

"So," she said as she sat next to him. "What do you think?"

"A risk. Why did you bring him to me?"

"I thought…I needed to get back in the game. I need to…"

"Act? Sing? No, we agreed that was over. He did not promise you a part, did he?"

She sighed. "Just a producer credit. I am almost forty, Edgar dear. Bellman would love to have me, but he needs a star, a younger star. Betty Winter is perfect. And she did the play. So rest your worries. I am not acting."

"Good."

"Well? Are you interested?"

"Maybe." It would be good way to hide some of his profits from other businesses. The German tax office had already caused him enough trouble. A year ago they had found some irregularities. His financial chief and friend Walter Weintraub had taken the fall for that and was doing a year in prison. He still had almost four months to go.

There was one more problem. "But dear, we don't have two million to spare."

"Oh…really?" She seemed surprised. He made the money and she spent it, on their home, on her clothes, on their children.

"Yes" he said and then he stood. "I wish Walter was here. He is the one for knowing a good or bad investment."

Esther stood and took his arm and leaned on him. "Walter is not here. You must decide."

"Will it succeed?"

"Yes," she said. "With Betty and Tristan it cannot fail."

Cannot fail. Walter would never say that. He wished he was here. He could make sense of all this.

"I need to go."

"Go? It's Saturday night, Edgar. Go where?"

"I have a meeting with the veterans' organization."

She sighed and nodded. "Good. Yes, you should go."

He knew what she meant. Ten years ago when he first met her he was a secret heroin addict. Dulling his nerves to try to stop his memories of infantry combat in Russia. He had been wounded in the leg, and in the field hospital they had given him morphine for his pain. That had set him and many others on the road to addiction.

She had helped him through the pain of withdrawal as Doctor Schmidt brought him back to humanity. He fell in love with her for her tender care in those days. From that beginning he built an empire with his various connections in the underworld. Now this investment might bring it all to an end. He needed to think. He needed Doctor Schmidt. And he needed Walter.

He kissed her goodbye and left. Downstairs he ran into one his men. "The red doctor Volcker has been arrested, boss," he told Edgar.

He was surprised. He had not had time to put in motion the plan he had discussed with Rath. "Really?" he replied to his man. "By who? What charge?"

"Looks like the political police. For being a red, I guess. Something to do with the Benda murder, the copper we have on the payroll told me."

"Good. Thank you."

As his driver took him to the veteran's institute he thought on Volcker and Rath. She had almost killed him and that would have upset Dr. Schmidt a great deal.

Schmidt had taken an interest in Gereon Rath ever since he had arrived in Berlin and began to upset the blackmail scheme. Edgar's first instinct was to bribe him but Schmidt said that would never work with Rath. Then he wanted to kill him and Schmidt told Edgar that Gereon was a veteran like they were and needed their help. Edgar used all his connections in Berlin and in Cologne and found out all he could about Gereon Rath. When he finally put the pieces together he confronted Schmidt and the good doctor admitted Rath was his brother. Schmidt would tell him no more, about why he used a different name and why he was estranged from his brother. All Edgar needed to know was that Gereon was in pain like they had once been, and he needed help to go from the darkness to the light.

* * *

**Kardakov**

The train shot through the dark tunnel and came back into the light of day. The Franco-German border was far behind them, Berlin ahead. An hour, maybe less, and he would have his chance. It was Sunday afternoon, a weekend day, a busy day for travel. The station would be packed.

The same three idiot agents were in charge. None spoke French or German, so he had to answer any questions from train and customs officials. He could have screamed bloody murder anytime, say he was being kidnapped, and so on, but then he would end up in the authority's hands. Eventually the three idiots would call someone, and a request from the Soviets to hand him over would come. And they would turn him over, as an enemy of the Soviet Union and a wanted criminal or whatever other lies they made up.

So, that left Berlin, a city where he could run and hide…if things went well.

They had spared no expense, getting a private room with attached toilet. As soon as they had gotten inside and the train had left Paris they handcuffed Kardakov to a bed railing. The Soviet agents then spent their time playing card games, talking nonsense, and grinning at him and wondering what kind of torture they would use on him in Moscow. And they also drank a bit, ordering beer and shots of vodka from the dining car. Food was ordered as well, and Kardakov ate as much as he could, not knowing when the next meal would come.

He was only let out of the handcuffs to use the toilet and when they crossed the border and the German customs police came on board. The three agents had hidden their guns under the bed mattress when the border stop came. They need not have bothered. After a quick check of their passports and tickets, the German customs police left.

Soon they would be in Berlin. The one who seemed to be the leader, an older man called Viktor, looked at his watch, then his ticket. "Almost one hour wait in Berlin Central Station," he said, not liking this. He stared at Kardakov. "The bosses gave me permission to shoot you if you try to run away."

"If you shoot me the German police will be all over you," he replied.

Another agent, the youngest, was named Mikhail. "We have diplomatic immunity," he said.

The third one, Alexander, nodded. "They can't touch us."

"So they can't," Kardakov agreed.

Viktor was still staring at him. "Keep your mouth shut, do as we say, and all will be well."

No, not all would be well, Kardakov thought. I am a condemned man. And a condemned man had no fear and these three traitors to the revolution he would soon see the last of.

Soon enough they arrived at Berlin Central Station. The largest rail station of the city, it was a major transportation hub between Western and Eastern Europe. Hundreds of trains came in and went out every day, and thousands of passengers filled its platforms, halls, restaurants, cafes, and shops. Naturally, the railway police and regular police patrolled the station as it was a favorite haunt of pickpockets and scam artists preying on the unwary travelers.

They could not have him wear handcuffs though the station, as that would attract attention, but the three agents closed around him, tightly restricting his movement and sight as they got off the train and moved through the station. Suddenly Viktor stopped and they all did. Viktor looked at his ticket and then up a large notice board where train times, destinations, and track numbers were shown.

"Moscow should be track four…yes, there it is. Good, leaves in forty minutes. Let's go."

Kardakov was surprised the brute could read the Roman lettering the notice board was in. But of course the ticket had the same lettering and he was just matching images.

Again they hemmed him in and walked. They went past a busy restaurant and then a tour group posing for photographs one member was taking.

And that's when Kardakov saw them, two regular policemen, standing nearby a magazine kiosk, eyeing the crowds for trouble.

He started his plan, pretending to be gasping, wheezing, fighting for air. "I can't…my lungs…," he gasped in Russian. "The gas…I…"

"You bastard!" Viktor shouted as Kardakov fell to the ground. Immediately all three, as if acting on some baser instinct, and a fear of failing and being put against a wall, took out their pistols. It was a mistake. The two policemen by the kiosk saw all this commotion, pulled out their Lugers, and advanced.

"Halt!" one shouted in German as they pointed their pistols. "Drop your weapons!"

Kardakov leaped to his feet and ran at them, shouting in German. "They beat me, tried to rob me! Arrest them!"

Alexander leaped for him but missed and fell, tripping over his feet. Mikhail cursed him in Russian. And Viktor…Viktor opened fire…and missed Kardakov but hit one of the policemen.

Bedlam, guns shooting, bullets flying, people screaming, passengers running, bodies hitting the ground.

He leaped behind the magazine kiosk and took a peek at the action, seeing more police coming, seeing Viktor on the ground, bleeding from the forehead, the first two policemen on the ground, also bleeding, Mikhail shooting wildly, then getting hit, going down, and Alexander on his knees, dropping his gun, raising his hands, shouting in Russian. "Don't shoot! I have diplomatic immunity!"

Kardakov saw no more as he ran with the panicked crowds towards the nearest exit…and freedom.


	5. Chapter 5

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 5**

**Gennat**

Sunday was his day to relax and catch up on old cases and put to bed new ones. Ernst Gennat had foregone a regular home years ago when he had to spend Sunday's at the office in case of any calls to action. Over time he found himself spending more and more time there and decided to make it more permanent. He brought in a fold away bed that he had a carpenter cleverly disguise as a row of filing cabinets when put way. Then he had a plumber install a sink, and he added a mirror, some clothes racks, and a few book cases, and it was home. The station had plenty of toilets and the policemen's locker rooms had showers. Some thought this living arrangement odd but he cared not a fig.

He started Sunday as always, awaking early, and after washing his face and using the bathroom, he made a small coffee, lit a cigar, and then sat at his desk and began calling the local sector chiefs, asking about trouble in the night. Saturday was a drinking night in Berlin, and that always meant trouble. Car accidents, brawls, domestic fights, petty crime, vandalism, the works.

Gennat took down all the incidents in a file system he had devised over the years to ease his work and also to make a monthly and then yearly statistical report on crime in Berlin. He divided the city by sectors and each sector by neighborhood, and then recorded each crime as the chiefs described incidents. Most were minor things that they could deal with, petty theft, minor vandalism, a bar fight, and so on. More serious ones the Red Castle took care of. Robberies of large amounts, especially those involving the use of weapons, traffic incidents involving death, physical assaults, and, of course, murder required a detective on scene.

The day started well, with nothing too serious happening during the night. An hour later he was showered, shaved and sitting at the local Aschinger diner just as they opened for business. He had a large breakfast at his favorite table, which was always reserved for him every day. Another coffee, a short walk to his favorite bakery, the purchase of some pastries or a cake, and back he went to his office.

Today he sat and ate some nice éclairs while thinking about yesterday. A busy Saturday morning, one that gave him a headache, dealing with the state attorneys and Wendt. Also present was a man from Hindenburg's office, a Herr Weber, plus Police President Zorgiebel. Doris sat in a corner with her steno machine, getting every word.

He explained all their progress with the Russian train incident and the murders in the forest, the Russian in the canal, the priest in the cement, and the deaths of Stephan Janicke and Herr Benda and his daughter.

First the train incident and that took ages. Hindenburg's representative Herr Weber was a thin balding middle aged man who wore a bow tie and had a short beard. He was a legal advisor for the President's office and was now quite unimpressed by what Gennat told him.

"Your men bungled the arrests of the gangsters," he said with disdain.

"They were under a lot of stress and did as they thought best," Gennat replied. "There was only a short time to disarm all of them and some mistakes were made. Their weapons were taken and plied together with no thought of proper evidence collecting, this is true. But there were only two of them, with a dozen or more assailants. Incapacitated, yes, but only for a short time, and back up was far away. In fairness, all the assailants wore gloves, so no fingerprints were found. None of the weapons were legally registered as well."

A lawyer for the state attorney's office spoke up. "We have no witnesses to their actions and we haven't enough evidence to connect which weapon belonged to who. We cannot bring to court such flimsy cases. So they have all been released."

"They killed soldiers of the Reich!" Herr Weber said in disgust. "President Hindenburg is not pleased at all about this situation."

"Not very satisfactory, indeed," Wendt added, seemingly upset at this news. "I would like to offer an apology to the President on behalf of the police."

Gennat and Zorgiebel stared at him. "As would I," Zorgiebel said. He was obviously angered that Wendt had beat him to the punch. "Let us move on. Councilor Gennat, the evidence against Detective Sargent Bruno Wolter please."

He went through all the evidence for Bruno being part of the nationalist assassination plot, the train robbery and the possible murders of the priest and Janicke. When finished the state attorneys had a few minor questions and then he handed over copies of the case reports to their team.

Next came the train itself. "All of the charges against the members of the Reichswher have been dismissed," the head state attorney lawyer said. They all knew that already, with poor August Benda taking the brunt of criticism and embarrassment for that fiasco.

"As have any charges against Alfred Nyssen and his company," another lawyer added.

"He imported poison gas into our capital city," Zorgiebel said in anger.

The state attorney shrugged. "Herr Nyssen claims he was duped into believing he was importing pesticides. There is not enough evidence to say otherwise."

"And the Sorokin's gold?" Gennat asked. "Was not Nyssen involved with this woman who claimed to be Svetlana Sorokin?" He had reports that they had been seen together several times at Moka Efti and at other places in the city.

"Rumors with no evidence to back them up, Councilor," Herr Weber said. "And there was no gold, was there?"

"No," Gennat said.

"And the woman?"

"Disappeared," Gennat said. "In Paris we believe."

Weber went on. "The President wishes it to be known that he has the highest confidence in Herr Nyssen's innocence in all matters."

"I quite agree," Wendt said through a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I have been a guest of the Nyssen family on occasion. The mother is strong willed, but Alfred is, well, to be frank I think he hasn't the stomach for all this. No doubt he is innocent."

Zorgiebel nodded ponderously. "Let us move on. The Benda murders."

For a second Wendt looked to Gennat but Gennat said nothing. He wanted the case let him explain. "We are making little progress," Wendt began. "The maid Overbeck has confessed to letting a man into the home to place the bomb in the desk. However, so far we have not found any evidence to support this claim nor located the two men she says were involved. It must be noted that no one doubts she must have had some help in making and placing the device. She claims it was Nazis, while a Communist group claims it was them, and so the waters are getting quite muddied. As for the charges against the maid, it is a clear case of abetment of premeditated murder for Herr Benda and his daughter."

"Not quite," Gennat said. "For Herr Benda, yes. For his child, no. She was not the target."

"Agreed," said the head lawyer for the state attorney. "Fraulein Overbeck will be charged with abetment in the premeditated murder for August Benda and the unintentional death of his daughter Margot."

"When can we expect a trial?" Herr Weber asked.

"Possibly September," the lawyer said.

Wendt look perturbed at this news. "Why so long?"

"We need time to prepare the case. And the courts are quite busy," the lawyer replied. "The August holidays also means little will be done after July. So, sometime in mid-September I expect."

As no one had anything more to add they moved on again. Gennat spoke on the Russian in the canal and the bodies in the forest. All were found to be Soviet citizens, all wanted for crimes in their home country, so the Soviets claimed, and so all the bodies were sent back to the Soviet Union. As for the two Soviet embassy men suspected of murdering them, Benda had made a deal and they had been released.

"That was a political matter," Wendt said. "An effort which came to nothing. Herr Benda traded the two murderers for some documents that he used to accuse General Seegers and the others of operating a secret base in Russia. We all know what that came to."

"As Herr Benda is dead we need not drag his name through the mud, Councilor Wendt," Zorgiebel said in admonishment to Wendt.

"My apologies," Wendt said, but he did not sound sincere.

Finally they came to Alexei Kardakov, the supposed leader of the Red Fortress anti-Stalinist organization in Berlin.

"Gone as well," Gennat said. "No sign of him for weeks now. His employer the band leader Herr Tretschkow says he has not been seen in a while. The timeline fits closely with when we believe the print shop was attacked. Perhaps Kardakov was killed as well but we have yet to locate his body."

And so that was that. The state attorneys took copies of all the files and everyone made polite goodbyes. But Weber hung back and Zorgiebel indicated Gennat should as well. Wendt looked at them all, then moved towards the door, sensing he was not needed or wanted.

"Fraulein," Zorgiebel said to Doris. "That is all. Please type up the notes as soon as possible. Thank you."

"Yes, sir," she said as she packed up her steno machine and left.

Weber spoke first as they all remained seated at the table. He looked to Gennat. "Councilor, please do not mistake my manner for rudeness. I must answer to the President, and well, he has a soft spot for all soldiers, even ones who seem to have broken the law."

"They did break the law, Herr Weber," Zorgiebel said.

"But they are dead now. And there was no gold, was there?"

"No," said Gennat. "That does not mean they did not break a dozen laws."

"Gentlemen, the Reich President wants this all behind us. No fuss, no trials, no more news stories, a complete closure on all information regarding the train, the dead Russians, Herr Nyssen, the supposed Black Reichswher…all of it."

"Herr Wendt should be told this as well," Zorgiebel said.

"He already has," Weber told them and neither Gennat or Zorgiebel was surprised.

"Well, if that is all," Gennat said, about to rise.

"One more thing," Weber said. "This detective, Gereon Rath. He did a remarkable job. Saved the girl from the car in the lake, stopped Wolter and the gangsters, planned it all at a run and with limited resources."

"Yes, he is an invaluable man," Zorgiebel said.

"How do you plan to reward him?"

"Pardon?" Gennat said in surprise.

"The police department does have a medal for valor, does it not?"

"We do," Zorgiebel said. "Given out rarely. Perhaps Rath is so deserving."

"If so, then there is no need to reward him openly," Weber said, getting to the point. "No publicity, gentlemen." He stood. "I will be in touch if anything else arises, good day."

They stood and said goodbye. When he was gone they sat again and Gennat spoke. "About Rath. What do you think?"

"Rath would not care for a medal."

"Very well."

" Maybe a pay boost would be sufficient reward. I will inform accounting."

"Very good, sir," Gennat said and once again tried to leave.

"Ernst? A moment, please. About Wendt…"

"Sir, forgive me, but I try to stay out of politics. I am a simple detective."

Zorgiebel sighed and nodded. "Of course. I understand. Good day."

And that was that. Now as he sat in his office on Sunday morning, he wondered about all these strange events and hoped most of it was behind them, as Herr Weber wished.

The rest of the morning he spent compiling crime statistics for the month of May 1929. The dead Russians in the forest gave the murder rate a sharp uptick from normal rates. Burglary seemed to be up a bit as well as warmer weather meant more people left windows opened. All the rest was as usual.

After lunch he spent some time reading about a new idea, criminal telepathy. An intriguing notion, trying to find people or evidence through the use of psychological means. He knew it seemed hair brained and would be derided by most professional policemen, but it was interesting.

Around three his desk phone rang. He answered and suddenly Sunday was turned upside down. A shooting, at Berlin Central Station, multiple bodies. He immediately called all teams to converge on the station, called for a car to wait for him downstairs, grabbed his hat and coat, a few extra cigars, and ran out the door.

* * *

**Gereon**

They had a late lunch after coming home from Sunday church services and Gereon was just relaxing with a cigarette and the Sunday papers in the new apartment living room when the phone rang. Helga answered and said it was for him, Councilor Gennat.

"Rath, sir," he answered.

"Get your team together," Gennat said. "Shooting at Berlin Central Station. Several victims."

"Yes, sir."

Gennat hung up. Gereon grabbed his small notebook from his inside coat pocket and swiftly found the numbers and called Czerwinski and Henning and luckily found them at home. Charlotte, however, was a different story. The phone rang and rang and then a sleepy sounding girl answered.

"Hello?"

"Charlotte Ritter, please."

"The copper? She's gone."

"Gone where?" Gereon asked.

"Who's this?"

"Her boss. Where is she?"

"I don't know," the girl said. "Oh, wait. Maybe back to her old home to collect her sister she said."

"Thank you."

He knew where that was, had been there once to get Charlotte.

"What is it?" Moritz asked. He and Helga were standing there looking at him.

"Shooting, central train station. I have to go."

"Yes, be careful," Helga said in worry and then he grabbed his pistol, put it on, and then his coat and hat and he was out the door.

First Charlotte…if he got there in time. He went on the street and luckily got a taxi. Damn, he would have to buy a car, there was no way around it now.

Fortunately, there was light traffic on Sunday. Twenty minutes later he was near Charlotte's home and by chance he saw her with a younger girl with long red hair standing by the street trying to wave down a taxi, a suitcase at their feet. That must be the sister.

"Stop here!" he said to the driver. "By the two women."

He opened the door and Charlotte looked at him in surprise. "Gereon…what are you doing here?"

"Come, we have a case. Quick. We are late."

They climbed in with the suitcase. "Berlin Central Station, hurry," he told the driver and off they went.

"What's up?" Charlotte asked.

"Shooting at the train station. Multiple victims."

"God."

"Everyone is called out. Gennat will be there so…"

"Understood." She looked at the girl. "My sister… she is supposed to move in with me." Then she looked back to Rath and he understood her worry.

"She can take the cab to your new home. I'll pay."

"No," Charlotte said and then she seemed embarrassed. "It's…complicated. I share with another person. He has days, I have nights."

"Oh…well…," he said, then he looked at her sister. "We might be a while."

"I can wait," she said. "I know the station. There is a good coffee shop."

"Yes," he said. "Good…ah…."

"Sorry," said Charlotte. "Toni, this is my boss, Detective Gereon Rath."

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

"The same to you, Toni," Gereon said. She was very polite. "So how is it having a sister in the police?"

"Very exciting," Toni said. "But she won't tell me any good stories."

"Good," Gereon said. "I mean, we aren't supposed to talk about our work."

"Yes, hear that sis," Charlotte said. "So stop bugging me."

They all had a small laugh about that, but today's events were getting too serious for much joy.

Ten minutes later they were at the station. Outside it was bedlam. Police cars, ambulances, reporters, passengers with luggage, gawkers looking to see what it was all about. Gereon paid the driver and they got out.

"Hell," Charlotte said. She looked around in worry. "You can't go in there, Toni. Look, there, that café is open. Here is five marks. Go sit, have something, and wait. And don't talk to strangers!"

"I won't."

They made their goodbyes and then Gereon and Charlotte made their way through the crowds. A line of policemen blocked the entrance. They flashed their badges. "Rath and Ritter, homicide," he said for the both of them and they were let through. As they came up some steps to the main doors a stretcher was carried out with a wounded police man on it. He had a bloody bandage on his right upper arm and looked pale and in shock. They took him to a waiting ambulance and it too off.

Inside they found another policeman and he gave them directions to the scene. Here they found all the murder squad plus many more policemen guarding the scene. On the station floor nearby a railway track were five bodies with pools of blood around them and some pistols lying nearby dead hands. Four were men, one was a civilian woman. Two of the men were police officers, and the other two looked like civilians as well.

Bohm was questioning an older man standing by a magazine kiosk. Henning was already here, helping place number marker panels by some bullet casings with some other detectives. Graf was taking photos of everything. Czerwinski was off to the side, talking to someone who was in handcuffs with two armed policemen guarding him.

Councilor Gennat stood to the side, observing all, cigar in hand. "Sir," Gereon said as he and Charlotte arrived. "What can you tell us?'

"Five dead, four wounded, already gone to hospital. We are still trying to determine exactly what happened."

"What can we do?"

"The woman," Gennat, pointing to the dead woman. "She's yours."

"Come," Gereon said to Charlotte. He pulled on crime scene gloves and she reached into her bag and brought her pair out and put them on. Good, she always carried them, Gereon thought. That was good.

The dead woman was lying on her right side, facing away from the nearby tracks, blood pooled under her. She wore a green dress and a brown overcoat, with a brown hat laying nearby. She had black hair with streaks of grey, maybe middle aged. A brown suitcase and a blue handbag were nearby the body.

"A traveler," Charlotte said as they took in the scene.

"Yeah. The only one without a gun nearby."

"Innocent bystander?"

"Maybe."

Graf came over and began to take pictures. "Not how I like to spend my Sundays," he said. He took a few more and then nodded. "Okay, she's yours."

"Charlotte, check inside the handbag. Carefully, do not move it much."

She reached down and opened the bag, looked inside. "Let's see. Looks like some cosmetics, tissues, a handkerchief, some hard candies, and a small wallet." She took it out and opened it. "Some coins and bills. Marks and…what's this?" she asked. "Is it Polish?"

Gereon looked at the bill in her hand. "Yeah, zloty. Polish money. Is there a ticket and passport?"

She looked and nodded, took out a ticket and a Polish passport, opened it. "Maria Stanislawski. Maybe…Warsaw address? It's hard to read."

"Czerwinski would know."

She looked around. "He seems busy….oh, damn…him."

Gereon looked up. Him…the Soviet embassy official they had dealt with during the train and airfield in Russia affairs. Colonel Trochin, walking with Councilor Wendt towards the crime scene.

"How do you know him?" Gereon asked.

"I saw him at the gas train. And I spied on him at Moka Efti…remember? He thought he recognized me. God, and I spied on Colonel Wendt as well!"

"Right…stay here."

Trochin and Wendt went directly to where the man in handcuffs was being questioned by Czerwinski. Gennat and Gereon headed there as well.

"What is the story?" Wendt was asking Czerwinski.

"Two dead Russians and one live one, sir," Czerwinski said, obviously discomforted by being questioned by Wendt.

Trochin looked at the bodies and then back to the Russian who Czerwinski was questioning. He saw the man's passport in Czerwinski hand and Czerwinski handed it over.

"This is a diplomatic passport," Trochin said, obviously angered. "Why is he in handcuffs?"

"Because he committed a crime," Gennat said. "Herr Trochin, I am Ernst…"

"Yes, I know who you are. And Herr Rath as well. This man is a member of the diplomatic corps of the Soviet Union. I suppose the other two are as well."

"They were carrying guns and were involved in all you see here," said Gennat. "This man will be detained until we get to the bottom of all this."

Wendt nodded. "And what do we know so far?"

"Still putting it together," Gennat told him.

Trochin fumed and then he turned to his man and spoke rapidly in Russian, and the man paled and nodded and seemed to be agreeing to whatever Trochin told him. The Russian man seemed to be about to explain more, but Trochin cut him off with a glare and harsh words. The colonel then turned back to Rath and Gennat. "Where will he be held?"

"Our central station near Alexanderplatz," Gennat told him.

"He is not to be questioned without a representative of the Soviet embassy present," Trochin demanded.

"Of course," Wendt said.

"Then you can meet us at the station in one hour, Herr Trochin," Gennat said. "As this is an active crime scene, I would prefer if you leave."

"Very well," said Trochin as he handed Czerwinski the man's passport. "One hour."

After he walked away, they all looked at Czerwinski. "What did he tell him?" Gereon asked.

"To keep his mouth shut."

"Has he?" Gennat asked.

"Yes," Czerwinski replied. "All he said was they were changing trains to Moscow when the police opened fire on them. They were defending themselves. Oh, and he has diplomatic immunity. Said that many times now."

"This is not good," Wendt said. "Dead police officers, dead Russians…again."

"Colonel Trochin seems to have heard rather quickly," Gennat observed.

"I informed him some of the dead were Russians after I got the initial reports. It is my duty as the Political Councilor to inform embassies of all matters involving their citizens in Berlin."

"Of course," Gennat replied.

"We have one more embassy to speak to," Gereon said. "The dead woman appears to be Polish."

They walked over to the woman's body were Charlotte was standing with the woman's passport in hand. Wendt looked at her and smiled in his creepy way.

"Ah, Fraulein Ritter, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," she said, remaining calm.

"The first woman in the murder squad. How is it?"

"Fine, sir."

"Good. So, the woman is Polish?"

"Yes. Here is her passport."

Wendt took it and looked inside. "Well, what do you think, Fraulein? Why is she dead?"

"We believe she is an innocent bystander, sir," Charlotte replied. "Wrong place, wrong time. There is a train ticket to Warsaw in her hand bag."

"Very well," Wendt said as he handed her back the passport. "I will inform the Polish embassy tomorrow one of its citizens is in the morgue." He looked at Gennat. "The train station masters asked how long you will be."

"As long as it takes."

"Faster is better. Trains and passengers await."

"Tell them they can open all tracks but the one nearby here."

"Thirty minutes to finish," said Wendt. "No more."

He walked away without waiting for Gennat to answer. Gennat in fact, seem unperturbed by it all. The head detective saw Bohm waving to him and he walked that way.

"God, I can hardly breathe," Charlotte said as she seemed to gasp for air. "I thought Wendt would recognize me from Moka."

"No, not him. You were just a waitress, a nobody in his mind."

"Is he Gennat's boss?"

"No. They are equals. Herr Zorgiebel is their boss."

"I wonder."

"Yeah. So, the Polish woman? Anything to add?"

"Looks like one bullet to the chest. Poor dear. On her way home I imagine." She looked at where the dead Russians and cops lay. "What caused it all?"

"No idea. Look, conference time." Gennat waved all the detectives over to where he and Bohm were standing by the kiosk. When they gathered Bohm spoke.

"The kiosk manager saw it all. Four men walking by when one seemed to get sick. He collapsed to the ground and the other three drew guns and began yelling at him in Russian, he thinks. The two police officers tried to intervene, the sick man suddenly leaped up and ran past the policemen, screaming in German. Maybe he said 'they are trying to rob me'. But the witness is not sure. The three Russians tried to stop the sick man and shooting began. The manager then ducked down and saw nothing else."

"Who was the fourth man?" Gereon asked.

"No idea," Bohm said.

"They drew guns only after he fell?" Charlotte asked.

"As I said," Bohm replied with an edge of irritation in his tone.

"Looked sick, or was sick?" Henning asked. "There is no vomit anywhere."

"Maybe faking it," Charlotte said.

Gereon looked at her. "Three armed men, a fourth one…who wants to escape!"

"A prisoner, maybe," Gennat said. "Where were they going? Where did they come from?"

Another detective Gereon barely knew spoke. "Tickets on them show they came from Paris early this morning. Changing trains for Moscow. "

"Not anymore," said Gennat. "So, let us clear up this crime scene. Collect all evidence in a careful manner. The powers that be want to reopen the whole station, but our business comes first."

Gereon and Charlotte went to the dead Polish woman and helped the crime scene squad collect her effects. Then a stretcher team came and she was carted away. Charlotte seemed sad.

"She never made it home."

"Not fair, but there it is." He looked over at the dead Russians. "Neither did the Russians. And the sick man disappeared."

Suddenly Charlotte looked excited, as if a thought just came. "Gereon…what did the sick man look like?"

"Let's ask."

They found the kiosk manager about to close his business. "Done for the day?" Gereon asked as he and Charlotte flashed their badges.

"I was told to come in and sign a statement," he answered.

"We have a question," Charlotte said. "What did the man who ran away look like?"

"Ah…beard, shaggy hair, dark. Hmm…maybe as tall as me. Wearing normal clothes."

"Young or old?" Gereon asked.

"Neither. Middle aged, I guess."

"Heavy or thin?" Charlotte asked.

"Ah…between, not too heavy though. Chubby, I guess."

She smiled. "Aha! Kardakov!"

"What?" Gereon said in surprise. "Kardakov?"

"Yes! Can't you see? He went to Paris to find her, but they found him, Soviets, taking him to Moscow for…the end, I guess. No wonder he ran away."

No, it was too easy. "Charlotte, I think you are reaching."

"Really? Well, let's take him to the station to look at the pictures of the man. Okay?"

"Why do you think it is…?"

But she cut him off. "Wait." She walked to where Czerwinski was moving the prisoner towards the exit. "Ask him something. Please."

Czerwinski looked at Rath and he nodded. Charlotte whispered in Czerwinski's ear and then he nodded and spoke in rapid Russian to the prisoner. When he heard the words 'Alexei Kardakov' the man blanched and shook his head vigorously. "Nyet!" he said several times.

"He's lying," Charlotte said after they were gone.

"Looks like it."

Only one way to know for certain. They took the kiosk manager to headquarters after collecting Toni from the café. A strange group they were in a taxi. Toni had many questions and finally stopped pestering them after Charlotte told her to shut up the third time.

At the station, Toni was put on a bench outside the office to wait. They took the kiosk manager to Gereon's office and showed him the pictures and poster of Kardakov the musician.

The manager looked and hummed and hawed. "Maybe, he said. It all happened so fast."

Soon everyone else came back. Bohm was ticked off when he saw them with the manager. "That is my witness!"

"He is our witness," Gennat said in their defense. "So, Czerwinski told me your theory, Fraulein Ritter. Is it Kardakov?"

"He's not sure," she said, sounding defeated.

"Well, it is a good theory," Gennat replied. "Kardakov is already on the wanted list. Let's move him to the top. And send a stiff reminder to all stations to be on the lookout for him. Perhaps a photo in the newspapers tomorrow. If he is anywhere in Berlin we will find him."

* * *

**Kardakov**

He needed money to survive. Tretschkow, the band leader. He owed him wages. Not much, but maybe he could get more.

After fleeing from the chaos of the train station Alexei Kardakov slowed his pace and walked like any normal Sunday stroller. Behind him many people were running from the station but he took his time, acting as if all was well. What he needed now was a way to find Tretschkow. He would either be at Moka Efti or the basement jazz club that many of the fringe society of Berlin frequented. Damn, it was Sunday afternoon…he would be home, maybe. The number, the number…yes, it came to mind. He begged a few coins from a young woman, claiming he had his wallet lifted by some punks and he needed to call his wife. She gave him a tired look, and then perhaps noticed the bruises on his face from his Paris beatings. Her look turned sympathetic, she nodded, and put enough coins in his hand to make a short phone call.

He entered a public phone box and made the call. It rang and rang and then a man answered, but not Tretschkow.

"Hello, Tretschkow home," he said in a cheery effeminate voice.

"I need to speak to Herr Tretschkow."

"Who is calling, please?"

"Alexei Kardakov."

"One moment."

A long moment later Tretschkow came on the line. "Alexei? Is it you?"

"Yes. I need help."

"You most certainly do! I am quite angered…"

"I don't have time for this, Tretschkow! I need my wages."

"Wages, is it? After you and Svetlana left me in the lurch!"

"My apologies. There was…trouble."

"I know. The police came looking for you."

"When?"

"Weeks ago."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. But I heard so many rumors. About a print shop shot up, about bodies found in a forest, all Russians…and you among them!"

"Rumors, yes. Look, can you help me?"

A heavy sigh. "Fine. Come to the house."

"I have no money for a tram or taxi. Nothing. I had to beg for coins to make this call."

"Dear, oh, dear. Well, where are you?"

Kardakov told him.

"Right. Thirty minutes."

"Thank you, thank you." And then suddenly the call ended, his time up.

It was a long thirty minutes, with nothing to do but wait. There was a café, a bar, a hair salon, and a bookstore nearby, all but the café closed on Sunday, and he no money for even a small coffee. He suddenly heard a siren and an ambulance flew past, making him frightened it was the police for a moment. More traffic picked up, and he knew it was a response to the train station. He knew some had been hit, maybe died…well, that was the price of revolution. He had to find a way to get out of this city and go to Istanbul. He had to join Trotsky and begin to plan again.

He was not very close to the exiled leader, but he knew who Kardakov was. In the war Kardakov had served in the infantry like so many others. His middle class upbringing and his talent for music mattered not there. And he found a new purpose in life, in the mud and snow with the peasant soldiers. He found he had a talent for organizing and for speaking. When the revolution came, he convinced many others to walk away from the trenches. He made his way to Moscow and later entered the Red Army, fought in the civil war, and then, when they finally had peace, it all fell apart. Lenin died and Stalin…he betrayed them, murdered the leaders who opposed him, and others, like Trotsky, had fled. Kardakov was marked for death for being a Trotskyite and he had barely escaped.

In a public garbage can near the phone box he found a discarded newspaper, _Tempo_, weekend addition. He picked it up and read as much as he could about what was happening in Germany and looked for news about the events that he had been involved in. A small piece on the Sorokin train on the third page was all he found. The reporter claimed the government and police were blacking out all news on the incident, claiming it was a minor train accident.

A car horn took him out of his thoughts. Tretschkow's car. He threw away the newspaper and entered the back seat where the band leader sat, dressed in a fine suit as always and smelling of perfume.

"Alexei! Oh my, what has it come to?" Tretschkow said as he got a look at him. "You look like hell. What happened to your face?"

"Troubles I have had," he said, still feeling the pain of the beatings in his nose and jaw. "Thank you for coming."

Tretschkow told his driver to take them home.

"Home?" Kardakov said in surprise. "No, I just need money."

"Nonsense. You need a rest, and food, and maybe a doctor, and well, then we'll talk about money."

He was too tired and hungry to say no. "Good, good."

"So…tell me, what happened?"

"Better you don't know."

"Alexei, I am not as squeamish as you suppose. I know your love for politics. I always knew it would come to a bad end. Especially with that Svetlana."

"Sveta…yes. She is in Paris."

"So I heard through the grapevine. Making a name for herself there. She will be a star!"

He cared not anymore. "A waste of time, she was. We are through."

"Good. Then perhaps you will consider returning to the stage."

"I…yes, maybe. It would be good to just play music for a while."

"Then it is settled. I will give you a home, new clothes, and a place on stage for your violin."

"My violin? I left it at my last address."

"We will find you a new one, not to worry. A better one."

As they drove Tretschkow went on and on about the music scene in Berlin, about troubles with his male lover, and about other such nonsense. At least he did not ask again about what had happened to him.

Tretschkow's home was a large stone structure on a tree lined avenue in a fashionable district of Berlin. He had inherited it from his parents, Kardakov knew, but they had left him little else except a talent for music and a desire to be on stage. His wealth came from this talent and from a share in a number of clubs around the city.

As they entered the home Kardakov thought yes, it would be good to rest here for a while. Hide from the world for a few days, then squeeze some money from his host and make his way to Istanbul.

* * *

**Charlotte**

Sunday was shot, almost the rest of the afternoon spent at the murder squad office, writing reports, making phone calls, putting together the story of the station shooting. The Soviet Colonel Trochin arrived and she hid her face from him while Gennat took him to the interrogation room for the interview with the Russian in custody.

Later, she had a brief window of time to drag Toni to the apartment and luckily the guy who shared it with them had gone out early and the key was behind the bar. She quickly showed Toni the place, told her to unpack and clean up, gave her a bit more money to go buy some food, and then flew back to the station.

Just in time as she ran into Gereon on his way out as he got off the Paternoster lift on the ground floor. "Come," he said. "Herr Gennat wants us to go to the hospital to interview a wounded policeman."

They borrowed a car from the police garage and drove through the late afternoon traffic.

"What's the policeman's name?" she asked. Gereon handed her a small piece of paper. On it was written "Helmut Fischer, Charite Hospital."

"Maybe he was the one we saw taken out of the station," she said.

"Maybe."

He was silent, concentrating on driving, serious as always.

"You promised to show me how to drive," she said to lighten the mood.

"So I did. But not now."

"I know the basics. Gas, brake, steering, and…gear shift!"

"Right. So…when we have some free time."

"Yeah, right. When will that be?"

"We have been busy, yes."

She lit a cigarette and lit one for him as well. "Thank you," he said. "So…first class tomorrow."

"What?"

"Gennat said to tell your first detective exam class is tomorrow at 10 AM. The great hall."

"Ah. Good."

He looked at her. "Just…be yourself. Okay?"

"I always am. Why did you say that?"

Gereon looked worried. "It will be all men. They…just…be relaxed. They may be nice…or not."

She laughed. "I worked at Moka Efti as a…"

"I know," he cut her off.

"I can handle men."

"I am sure."

She looked at him and wondered if he was upset she had once been a prostitute. And she also wondered, not for the first time, what he would be like in bed. He sensed her looking at him, glanced her way and she quickly looked out the front window.

Silence for a while until they pulled up to the hospital and got out. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a flat rectangular wooden box, which she knew was an evidence collection box.

"We need to get his pistol for Ulrich," Gereon explained. "It was not at the crime scene. Let us hope the hospital has it."

"Right."

"I want you to take the lead in questioning him," Gereon said as they walked up to the main doors.

"Really?"

"Yes. You need practice. Now is a good a time as ever."

"Fine." They put out their cigarettes and entered the hospital. They found a nurse's station and after flashing badges they were told where the wounded policeman was.

"But he may groggy," the reception nurse said. "He had surgery. His arm was broken and they had to put a pin in it. Check with the doctor on that ward."

"Yes, thank you," Gereon said. They walked to the third floor and the ward where the policeman was. They met a young doctor in charge of the ward who said Fischer was awake and should be able to answer some questions.

"We heard he had surgery," Gereon said. "Was a bullet recovered?"

"No," the doctor said. "It appears it went through, nicked the humerus, ah, the upper arm bone, cracked it, and then on out the back of the arm."

Charlotte guessed the bullet or its fragments were somewhere back at the railway station. Maybe someone had already collected it.

"Do you have his effects?" Gereon asked the doctor. "We need to confiscate his pistol."

"Yes," the doctor said. He walked to a cabinet, opened it and among some white linens there lay a policeman's belt, holster, handcuffs, and Luger pistol. The doctor reached for it but Gereon stopped him.

"We'll do it, please. Charlotte, open the box." As he pulled on his crime scene gloves, she did as he asked as he then slowly took out the Luger. He checked the action and the magazine. "Two rounds missing," he said. He kept the pistol and magazine separated, and placed them carefully in the box, after which she closed it and locked it.

"What about his belt?" she asked.

"Leave it. Get out your notebook," he said to her as he took off his gloves. She handed him the box, took out her notebook and pencil from her hand bag.

"Ready," she said.

He looked at his watch and spoke. "7:24 PM, Sunday, June 2, 1929, Luger pistol of Police Officer Helmut Fischer recovered at Charite Hospital after Berlin Central Station shooting."

She took it down in shorthand and nodded when finished. "Got it."

"Note. Two rounds missing from magazine, pistol not on safe when recovered."

"Yes," she said after finishing this note.

"Good. Let's go meet him."

"Any hints?" she asked after they neared the room door.

"Ask simple questions. Don't lead him, let him answer in his own way. Just ask him what he saw, what he heard, what he did."

"Got it."

Gereon kept the evidence box in hand as they entered the room. It was a shared room, with six beds. There were only two patients. An old man was deep asleep in a bed in the far right corner. Fischer was in the middle bed on the left side, his name clearly printed on a chalk slate on the wall above his bed. He was propped up by pillows, his right arm in a heavy bandage, supported by a sling reaching up to a metal pole.

Fischer was a young man, maybe early twenties, had short blond hair and blue eyes. He looked exhausted and barely blinked when they approached.

They took out their badges. "Helmut Fischer?" Gereon asked.

"Yes," Fischer said quietly.

"Rath, homicide."

"Ritter, homicide."

"Homicide?" he said in surprise.

"Yes," Charlotte said, her notebook in hand. "We need to talk to you about what happened at the station."

"Shooting."

"We know," she said. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was on patrol," he said, a little louder. "Just a normal day."

He went quiet. "And?" Charlotte asked.

He sighed. "I saw down the track…men, with guns. I ran towards them…shooting began, yelling…not in German. People screaming, falling, running. One man fired at me…I fired back. Then I guess that's when I got hit in the arm. I fell and…I don't remember much."

She quickly took it all down in shorthand. "Do you know how many times you fired your weapon?" she asked.

"Once…maybe twice. Not sure."

"Anything else you can tell us?" she asked next.

He shook his head. "No…sorry. Who were they?"

"We are still investigating," Gereon told him. "Thank you, we must…"

"Is there anyone we can call?" Charlotte asked. "Family?"

Fischer perked up. "My folks…please." He gave them the number, they thanked him and left. Outside Charlotte commandeered a phone from the ward reception desk.

"Hello? Herr Fischer?... Good day," she began after placing the call. "I am Charlotte Ritter of the Berlin Police…yes…no, he is fine. But he was involved in a shooting…I just saw him at the Charite…his arm…what? One moment, please." She looked at the doctor they spoke to earlier. "His family wants to know when they can visit."

"Too late today and he needs to rest. Tell them tomorrow morning after 9 AM."

She conveyed the information to Herr Fischer, then listened. "Yes, one moment." She held out the receiver to the doctor. "The father wants to talk to a doctor."

The doctor sighed and took the phone and as they left they heard him explaining the son's injuries.

"Well done," Gereon said as they walked down the stairs. "Save us a trip to the home."

"What? I…I didn't do it for that."

"No, I understand. You cared."

"Yes."

He stopped and so did she. "Charlotte, it is good you care. But don't get too attached to the victim and their families. It will ruin you."

"I know. Sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. Do as you do. But don't take on too much, okay?'

"Yes, boss," she said with a grin. He cared…for her.

"Come," he said. "Herr Ulrich will want this pistol. And then we need to eat. I am famished."

Outside night was falling. As they walked to the car Charlotte had a sudden frightening thought. "Gereon…what if Fischer's gun killed the Polish woman?"

"Maybe. But we will cross that bridge when we come to."

An hour later they were done for the day and were in Aschinger having some food and beer with Henning and Czerwinski. Charlotte sat there, absorbed in the conversation about the case, and all it meant, and she felt like they did not condescend to her or treat her not as an equal. And she finally felt like she belonged. The police department of Berlin, murder squad, was her new home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Babylon Berlin Summer Cases Chapter 6**

**Charlotte**

Monday morning was busy again. First, up and out by 8AM after a hasty breakfast of bread, sausage, and tea in their room. Then Charlotte made sure Toni took the tram to her school, with a warning she would know if she did not go, and then off to the Red Castle. She completed reports on the train shooting, and then prepared with Reinhold Graf and Gereon some photos of Alexei Kardakov with a caption for the newspapers.

"Almost ten," Gereon said when they finished. "Class time."

She grabbed her notepad, pencil, books, and handbag and ran out the door. The great hall already had several people when she arrived, but no one she recognized from the murder squad. Four young men in suits sat on the right side in various rows and seat, two of them sitting together. Higher up in the center were two men in police uniforms. They all stared at her when she walked in and took a seat in the second lowest row on the left side.

"Fraulein!" someone shouted. "I believe you are in the wrong place."

She took a deep breath, stood and turned and looked at them all. "I am Criminal Assistant Charlotte Ritter, murder squad. And I am in the right place."

Before they could get over their shock and say anything they were interrupted. "Yes," said a voice behind her. She turned and there was Gennat in the doorway. He walked in as she sat down. "So, my colleagues, you have met Fraulein Ritter of the murder squad. Now, introduce yourselves. You first." He pointed and then one by one they stood and spoke. The two in suits sitting together were assistants from robbery, another was from vice, and the last was from the political department. The two in uniform were from the traffic department. They were older than the assistants and both had ten plus years in Berlin's streets dealing with traffic incidents.

"So," began Gennat when they were done. "You have all applied to be detectives in your various departments. In this class you will learn the basics of being a detective, mainly in how to deal with crime scenes and how to gather evidence. As it is my hope to have you all trained to the point where you could become useful to any department if a situation requires it, you will all train in the major fields of murder, assault, robbery, vice, and traffic. To begin, let us discuss what each department handles. The murder squad deals with murder and assaults causing bodily harm. Robbery deals with theft and burglary. Vice deals with sex crimes, narcotics, gambling, and violations of the alcohol laws. Traffic deals with…well traffic, particularly traffic incidents causing death. As detectives you must also learn to liaison with the other departments. By these I mean the records department, the property department, the police dog unit, the police diver unit, the woman's police unit, the riot police unit, and the uniformed patrol divisions in each neighborhood of our fair city. In addition, the customs police and the railway police. But above all, you must learn procedure!"

He said it with such force Charlotte for a moment felt startled.

"Procedure," Gennat said more calmly. "Rules and regulations. We must follow them exactly! To prevent crime and to ensure those we do arrest are tried in a fair manner and punished according to their crimes. I cannot tell you how many perpetrators slipped through our fingers because of mistakes made at crime scenes and in gathering evidence. So, we will begin there."

And so for the next while he spoke on what he called the Gennat method of dealing with a crime scene. He wrote out the five steps on the chalkboard, and spoke on each one in detail. Charlotte knew most of this but she wrote it all down anyway. As Charlotte took notes she noticed that no one else was writing anything…in fact, none had a pencil or pen or notepad.

At 10:50 AM exactly Herr Gennat finished and left and then they had a ten minute break before Herr Ulrich took over. Charlotte ran to the bathroom and when done she realized she had no time for a smoke so hurried back to class. There she found the four suit wearers around her seat, looking at her notepad, all with puzzled looks on their faces.

"Can I help you?" she asked in her snarkiest manner.

They jumped and looked like boys caught at a crime. "We...we...we, " stammered one. "We…would like to borrow you notes."

"Can you read them?"

"No," admitted one. All her notes were in shorthand.

Another one, kind of handsome, had an easy going manner and smiled at her. "Perhaps you could type them out for us?"

She thought to say no, then knew she had to make friends. "For today, yes, I will type one copy to share. Then bring your own pencils and pads. Okay?"

They agreed and ran off to their seats. Charlotte noticed the two older policemen did not seem to care at all about this matter.

Ulrich showed up, spoken in a boring tone about fingerprints for fifty minutes and then they were done for the day. Lunch time, she went to the murder squad to get her coat and saw Herr Gennat in his office…speaking with Doris!

Gereon spoke behind her. "I told him what you wanted. He agreed. Now they are settling the details."

"Oh, good. Thank you!"

"No problem. Come."

"Where?"

"Autopsy. The Polish woman."

"It's lunch time."

"An official from the Polish embassy is here. We must sign off on the body."

They made their way to the basement morgue, Charlotte's stomach rumbling with hunger pangs and she hoped this would not ruin her appetite.

The morgue was filled with bodies from the shooting yesterday. The Polish woman's autopsy was already done and she lay wrapped up, prepared for movement to a funeral home. Rudi and Dr. Schwarz, the coroner, had another body on the slab already dissected, which they quickly covered up when Gereon, Charlotte and the Polish official walked in. Rudi gave her a grin and a wink, which she ignored. But Gereon had caught the look and gave her a puzzled look in turn and she just shook her head as if to say this can wait.

Twenty minutes later they were done. The Polish official spoke German so that eased matters. Gereon and Charlotte explained what they had found at the crime scene and what they knew about what had happened. The coroner had filled out a report for them to sign, with cause of death shock and loss of blood due to a single gunshot wound to the chest, which had bisected the aorta and led to death shortly after. He then he told the Polish official they would send the body to a nearby funeral home for preparation and shipment.

"And who is responsible?" the official asked, trying to control his anger.

"Unknown at the moment," Gereon said. "We must compare the bullet taken from the victim with the guns found at the scene."

As they walked the Polish official out he sighed heavily. "And now I must tell the family. Please let me know if you find who did this terrible crime."

After he was gone, Gereon turned to her. "So, making friends in autopsy?"

"Him? Not really. Well…he was the one who helped me with the Russian from the canal. And we went dancing once…twice."

"Good. Seems like a nice fellow."

"Yeah, I guess. Come, let's eat while we have time."

As they walked to Aschinger diner all she could think of was did Rudi make him jealous, is he trying to hide how he feels about me, or does he fell nothing, and so maybe he thinks Rudi and I would make a good match. It all gave her a headache.

At lunch he asked about detective school and she told him about her day and so put aside the other thing for the moment. After lunch she and Doris spent some time typing up reports for the train incident and then did some more work in the murder files. Doris was so happy she was now full time she did not mind all the extra work.

And then Charlotte went to her desk to study. Czerwinski and Henning were sitting nearby.

"Did he tell you about exams?" Czerwinski asked her.

"Gennat? No…not yet."

"Two exams," Czerwinski added. "Written one about laws and procedure. Then practical one, forensics. Crime scene and gathering evidence. Written exam is not so bad. You must get 80% grade or repeat."

"80%! Wow, that's hard."

Henning nodded. "Yes, but you are lucky. Gennat wanted it to be 100% but Zorgiebel said there would never be any detectives if he made it that hard."

"How about the forensics test?"

Czerwinski snorted. "One small mistake and you are done. Repeat."

That put some fear in her and made he feel the need to study more, and have more murder cases so she could practice. Then she realized what she was thinking. More cases meant more dead people and that was never good.

At 7 PM she went home and there was a message waiting for her. The girl Ethel had written it on a piece of paper. From Berlin's woman's prison. Visitor request rejected.

"Did they say why?"

"Nope," Ethel told her as she served some food to a customer. "That's all they said. Rejected."

"Thank you."

Charlotte found Toni in their room already. As they sat and talked and made some food for dinner, Charlotte wondered why she was rejected and what she could do to change it the next time. She had to see Greta.

* * *

**Greta**

Her lawyer did not arrive at the Berlin woman's prison until Monday morning. He was a tall man, a bit chubby, who wore glasses and a nice black suit, carrying a leather briefcase in his hand. His name was Otto Hoffmann, a very common sounding German name to her ears. And he seemed very common, but he was her first experience with a lawyer, so it was hard tell.

They sat in the visitors' room, which had long tables divided by a glass and metal partition, that was opened at the bottom to slide items through. One of the hulking ugly woman guards brought her in, pushed her down into a chair opposite Hoffmann and shackled her ankle to a metal bar on the floor. She then stood by the wall behind Greta the whole time her lawyer was present.

Her lawyer introduced himself and said he had been appointed by the state to defend her. He then slid a many page document across to her. As she looked at its pages she could see it was a typed up copy of her interview with the head detective.

"Fraulein Overbeck, is this your statement?" Hoffmann asked.

"Yes."

"Read it carefully, make sure it is what you told them."

She read and after a few minutes nodded. "Yes, exactly what I said."

"Have you anything to add?"

"No."

"Do you wish to recant any part of this?"

"Sorry?"

"Do you wish to take back your words? Sometimes in the excitement of events or under police pressure, there is much emotion involved and people say things they did which they never did. Is that the case here?"

"No."

"Did the police treat you badly in any way? Force you to say these words?"

"No. As you can see the detective said he did not like confessions as they sometimes were not true. But what I said was true, every word."

He sighed. "Then I fear you haven't much hope of a defense."

"Good, I don't want one."

He eyed her. "You want to be punished, is that it?"

Maybe he was not so common after all. "Yes. I did these terrible things. I should be punished."

"The state might ask for the death penalty."

"They should."

He sighed again and then nodded. "Very well. A date for your trial has not been set yet but it might be in September."

"I don't want a trial. What is the point?"

"Frankly, Fraulein Overbeck, I am also surprised they are having a trial. In such cases with such a detailed confession it is often simply a matter of sentencing. But as this is a case involving a high member of the police forces, there is perhaps some need to be more formal. Also, there is the matter of the two men you said caused all these events. The police claim they are searching for them. If they are found, certainly you will be a witness against them."

A witness…against Fritz…she thought she had love him, and he her. But it had all been lies, a trick, and more the more the fool she was for falling for it.

"Yes, I will be a witness."

"Good. If they are found, and proven to have done this, I feel the state will give you life in prison."

She merely nodded, unsure how she would feel about that..

"So, we are done, for now," he said." I will inform you of the progress of events and visit when I can."

Hoffmann took back the confession document, put it in his briefcase and said goodbye. The guard came and unshackled her foot and pushed her towards the door, one meaty hand on her left shoulder the whole time.

In the corridor outside there was a noisy crowd of people. Many policemen were here, with woman guards, and about ten female prisoners, all in handcuffs. The prison Director was there as well and she saw Greta and approached.

"Fraulein Overbeck, you can read and write, yes?"

"Yes, madam."

"Good, come with me."

She walked over to where the intake room for the new prisoners was located and Greta followed. "You will help with these new prisoners," the Director said.

They went inside. Greta knew this room, had been through it herself upon first arriving at the prison. The Director pointed to a table which had some paper forms and a stack of new large paper bags. "You will collect their clothing and any personal items. Write it down on the forms, each item. Then the prisoner will sign their name. You bag the items and label the bag with the prisoner's name and store it on the shelves in the room behind you by surname in alphabetical order. Clear?"

"Yes, madam."

"Good. Sit."

Greta sat at the table. At another table next to her was the prison doctor, a stout older woman, with her instruments and paper forms. Further down the line was the entrance to a small room, where the new prisoner would be showered and deloused. At the last station they would get issued prison clothes and items.

The first woman in line came in. The policeman escorting her removed her handcuffs and then stood there with an expectant grin on his face as the prisoner was told to strip and give her clothes to Greta.

"Out! Move!" a woman guard snarled at the policeman and he chuckled and left. "We just want a peek, " he said. "You are no fun." Outside he must have said something else to his comrades because more policemen laughed. Soon all the policemen were ordered to leave by the Director.

And so it went. In front of Greta they stripped and handed over their items which she recorded. Then they went down the line to the doctor for examination and so on.

Most of the clothing was modern and in good shape, but smelled, as if they had been locked up in a foul smelling place together, which most likely they had. Some had bruises on their faces, some with cut lips, as if they had been beaten. All had a determined look in their eye and none seem scared, at least not as scared as Greta had been that first time.

One by one she took their clothes and other items, some watches, rings, earrings, some cosmetics from their pockets, colorful scarves, a handkerchief or two, and not much else. None had a purse or handbag. She also noticed none had a Christian crucifix on a chain, which prisoners were allowed to keep. And all had the same item, a small red card that said they were members of the Communist Party of Germany.

The last one was the tallest and strongest looking. She had intense eyes and nice blond hair. When the prison doctor saw her she gasped.

"Doctor Volcker," she said in surprise.

"Yes," the woman answered. "I…oh, Doctor Muller, isn't it?"

"Yes," said the prison doctor. "I took some classes with you at the Charite Hospital. Why are you here?"

"I am a political prisoner of the oppressive regime which rules this country!"

The Director happened to step into the room at that moment. "Prisoner," she said. "You will refrain from making political statements inside these walls."

"You cannot gag me!" Volcker said. Two woman guards approached, menace on their faces, when Doctor Muller spoke.

"Frau Director, this woman is a doctor. I want her to work with me."

Before the Director could answer Volcker shook her head. "I will not serve my oppressors with my medical knowledge."

The Director nodded. "Very well. But you will work. There are no idle hands inside these walls. If you do not wish to use your skills we will find you other suitable work. Fraulein Overbeck, continue."

Volcker turned around and stared at Greta. "Overbeck? Greta Overbeck?"

"Yes. Your clothing, please, Doctor."

As she stripped she spoke in low tones to Greta. "So, you killed Benda?"

"Yes."

"And his child?"

"She wasn't supposed to be there."

"There are many rumors. Some say Communists planted the bomb. Other say Nazis did it. Which?"

"Nazis…pretending to be reds."

Volcker snorted. "Of course they did. Blaming my people. Benda was no friend of ours, and will not be missed. But you must speak true to the police."

"I have."

"Move along there!" a guard shouted.

Greta wrote down all the items on the form and Volcker signed it. As she bent over and signed the paper she looked at Greta. "My people and I will be keeping an eye on you, Fraulein Overbeck. We are being held here because of the repercussions of this crime of yours. Blamed for something we had no part it. Make sure you tell the truth when the time comes."

"I have. I will," Greta replied. Volcker gave her a long look and a slight nod of the head and then moved to the next station.

* * *

**Gereon**

The summons came while he was in his office in the late afternoon. An internal messenger dropped off an envelope with a note inside. All that was written was an address and today's date and a time, 7PM, with the name "Dr. Schmidt" under it.

Anno. He wanted to see him. He called Helga to tell her he was working late and not to wait for him for dinner.

"All is okay?" she asked.

"Yes, the train incident. We have a lot to do."

"I understand."

More lies. How long could he keep it up?

He went to the address on a dark lonely street with many apartments nearby. On the corner was Herr Kasabian's car. As Gereon approach Kasabian got out of the vehicle.

"Herr Rath."

"My guardian angel."

"Maybe so. Now you understand why I did not kill you."

Gereon nodded. "So, where is he?"

"Behind you."

Gereon turned. All he could see was a tall round metal column, an advertising station where people could post things they wanted to sell, or put up posters for entertainment shows, or place political notices. He also knew they had a door you could open up and go underground, a necessity for repairs to water and electrical systems at times.

"All I see is the ad column," he said.

"Enter. Go down. Follow the tunnel to the right. It is well lit. He is waiting."

Kasabian entered his car and left without another word. Gereon did as he was instructed.

Underground he found the place well lit. He followed the tunnel to the right and there was Anno…Dr. Schmidt, waiting for him.

"Gereon," he said. "Are you ready for the next step?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come."

They moved to a room, where there was a table, two chairs, and a microphone. Gereon was immediately suspicious of the microphone.

"What's this?"

"The broadcasts you listened to in the past. I made them from here."

"Why here?"

"It is illegal to make public broadcasts without a proper license. Here it is safer. Sit."

"I will not be broadcast. I could lose my job."

Anno smiled. "Not to worry. We will not be broadcasting tonight. I just want to talk. Sit."

Gereon sat and Anno sat opposite him. "How are they?" was his first question.

He knew who he meant. "I thought you cared not for Helga and Moritz."

"Not true. I care for them because they are part of you now."

"I thought you said no one could own another."

"Not own, but can be part of one. But never own."

"They are fine."

"You have told them nothing? About me?"

Gereon shook his head. "Nothing. And it is killing me."

"If you tell them it will kill them"

"I understand."

"Good. And how are you? Any attacks?"

"Yes. I went to a funeral of a colleague. He and his daughter were killed by a bomb in their home."

"August Benda," Anno said.

"Yes. I almost had an attack there when I saw their coffins. And another time at work. I collapsed, but was alone."

"What caused this attack?"

"A colleague, she…she found out a secret."

"What secret?"

He hesitated.

"Gereon, I am a licensed analyst. What you tell me is in confidence. And by my oath I cannot break this confidence."

Gereon nodded and took a deep breath. "I killed a man."

"A criminal?"

"Yes…and no. He has committed crimes, but that's not why I shot him. The first time I meet you, there was a priest…he followed me."

"Ah, Father Joseph. Yes, I know you killed him."

Gereon was not surprised. "He worked for the Armenian…and you as well?"

"Not directly. You said a colleague at work knows? Who?"

He shook his head. "I will not tell you."

"You said 'she' knows. A woman. You are protecting her. Ah, your new assistant."

Goddammit. "No."

"You face betrays you, Gereon. You lie to protect her. Do you have feelings for this woman?"

"No."

Slap! The blow hit him like a shock wave, Anno's right hand hitting his left cheek with sudden fury.

"Don't lie," Anno said calmly as if nothing happened. "Do you have feelings for her?"

"No…yes!"

"Have you slept with her?"

"No."

No slap. It was true and Anno knew it.

"You must put this out of mind, Gereon. This woman and this death are not what troubles you. That is much deeper. Strength, my brother. You need to be strong. You are still in the grip of the terrors you witnessed on the battlefield. We must dig deeper, and only then can you be out of the grip of the medicines and the terrors. I must hypnotize you. Will you permit it?"

He hesitated then nodded. "Yes."

And he remembered no more.

"Gereon?"

It was Helga.

He slowly realized he was on the living room sofa, in just his underclothes. He sat up, cobwebs in his head. His shirt and suit were on an armchair nearby, neatly folded.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 7:30 AM," she told him. "What time did you come home?"

He didn't know. "Late…didn't want to wake you. Where is the boy?"

"Eating breakfast. Come."

"Bathroom first."

He got up and went to the toilet. After, he washed his face, looked in the mirror and wondered what had happened and how he had gotten home. He looked down at his right hand. No shakes.

At breakfast he was in a daze. They talked and he listened and nodded. Something Moritz said cut through the daze.

"When will we buy one?"

"What?"

"A new car," Moritz said.

"I…when did I say that?"

Helga laughed. "You didn't. I mentioned it to him. So…can we?"

He nodded. "Yes. Soon. Maybe this weekend."

"Great!" Moritz said. Then he began to rattle off model names and their features and soon Helga had to stop him and get him out the door to school.

Gereon went to take a shower. She came in and joined him, both naked under the streaming water.

"Helga, I must work."

"You are a boss. You can be late," she said as she began to kiss him.

He had no real desire to make love but her hands and mouth betrayed him. After, as he dressed she sat on the bed in her silk robe and smoked. The morning paper lay on the bed beside her. The train incident was front news again. As was a picture of Alexei Kardakov.

"This man, Kardakov," she said. "Wasn't he the one from the Sorokin train?"

"Yes. We think he might be involved in the train station incident too."

"Where is he?"

"Nobody knows."

* * *

**Kardakov**

By Tuesday morning he was ready to leave the comfort of Herr Tretschkow's home. It was nice to rest there, and he had good food and good wine. A doctor even came and looked at his injuries and prescribed some pain medicine and told him to rest for at least a week. But time was pressing. Even more so when he came to breakfast and saw Herr Tretschkow reading the morning papers.

"You are famous again, Alexei," he said in greeting. He flipped over the paper and there was Kardakov's picture on the front page.

He snatched the paper and quickly read what it said. Suspected of being involved in the Berlin Central Station shooing on Sunday June 2. Anyone with any information should contact the police. A reward of one hundred marks for information leading to his discovery.

"So, is it true?" Tretschkow said. "Are you involved in all this train shooting mess?"

"No," he lied. "They want me for the other mess, with the gas train. Maybe they can't say too much about that in the papers."

"You had a part of that?"

"Yes. A small part. It's Svetlana they want. I was a minor player. She promised me money for the cause. All lies."

"Yes, I heard about the famous Sorokin gold being all coal. Well, she is in Paris so they will never get her. And speaking of lies, I still do not know what happened to you face."

"I was mugged. Punk kids. Took all my money."

"I see."

But Kardakov knew he did not believe him. "Speaking of money. I must go. To Istanbul."

"Istanbul?" Tretschkow said in surprise. "Not Trotsky again? Come, I thought you were going to join me on the stage."

He shook his head. "Sorry. With this news story I cannot be on stage in public. And I must continue with the goal."

"You will never defeat Stalin."

"So everyone says. But any man can be killed. And empires have fallen before."

Tretschkow sighed. "Very well. I suppose you know what is best. How much?"

"My wages. Plus whatever you can spare."

"Well, I was on my way to the bank anyway. I will make an extra withdrawal. Would five hundred marks be enough?"

"Yes, yes. Thank you."

After breakfast Tretschkow left. Kardakov made his way to a sitting room where there was a nice gramophone and a collection of records and a piano.

He listened to some of his favorites as he lay on a sofa and let the music wash over him. Yes, it would be nice to play music again but now Berlin was closed to him. His face in the papers was the end. Time to move on.

But how to get out of Berlin? The train stations would be watched. But south of here maybe not. Get Tretschkow to drive him out of the city, and hop on the Istanbul train somewhere down the line. Yes, it could work. He just needed the schedule.

He called the central station and got the Istanbul time schedule. Tomorrow morning at 9:10 it left Berlin Central Station. It was an express train and made few stops, the girl on the phone told him. The first one would be Prague in Czechoslovakia. Damn, too far. He then got the timetable for the regular train from Berlin to Prague, and yes it left tomorrow and did make a few stops at local stations between Berlin and Prague. So that would do.

After he hung up the phone he played some jazz music as he stood looking through the other records that were placed on a shelf. Somewhere in the background he heard a doorbell and voices, no doubt Tretschkow's man servant answering the door for some delivery. It was only when he heard a voice behind him he realized he was not alone.

"Herr Kardakov."

He turned. It was the Armenian, Edgar Kasabian, with three of his men.

"Herr Kasabian," he replied, his voice unsteady. "How are you?"

"Good. But a little surprised to see you again." As Kasabian spoke he walked to the gramophone and lifted the needle from the recording. The sudden silence was very oppressive as Kasabian turned to him and anger was in his eyes.

"Dr. Schmidt said you fled from his care after news came of our failure at the gold train."

"You must understand I was duped as well," he pleaded in his defense, eyes darting to the open doorway where the three thugs stood, blocking any escape..

"Yes, you were. But I was duped by you. Luckily all it cost me was some money for legal fees and some lost pride."

"Well, then," Kardakov said, beginning to sweat. "I must apologize."

"Good," said Kasabian. "But there is more to this. I know it was you at the train Sunday afternoon."

"No…"

"Don't lie!" It was a shout and the silence grew even more oppressive afterwards.

Kasabian spoke again, calmer. "You and trains have bad luck, yes? Now the Berlin police want you. The Russian Embassy wants you. So much trouble, stirring up people, causing problems. They know you used to work in my clubs. Soon they will be asking questions. The question I need to answer is who should I give you to? The police or the Russians?"

"Neither! I am leaving Berlin! I will cause no more trouble! Tretschkow has gone to fetch me money so I can get a train to Istanbul."

"I am afraid not," said Herr Tretschkow as he entered the room from the doorway. "Sorry, Alexei. I cannot be involved in your schemes anymore."

"You betrayed me!"

"I had to! When I saw the story this morning, I knew it was too much trouble. If the police knew I harbored you I could go to jail. That cannot happen. So I called Herr Kasabian, asking what to do. He told me he would he would handle it. I wash my hands of you. Sorry."

He left them before Kardakov could say anymore. He looked at Kasabian, feeling defeated, his whole body sagging. All he had been through, all he had survived, and now to come to an end like this was too much for him. "So, which will it be?" he asked, his voice weak with fear. "The Russians will kill me. The Germans will throw me in a cell where someone else will kill me eventually."

"Most likely," Kasabian said. "But there is a third option."

* * *

**Gennat**

Wednesday morning was the funeral for one of the policemen killed at the train station. A rainy day, the skies dark and overcast. All the mourners in dark colors, police and civilians, the family sitting in chairs under umbrellas by the open grave, all in tears, tears hidden partially by the droplets falling from the sky.

The six pallbearers were all young policemen friends of the deceased. As they approached the open grave in the cemetery, the coffin in hand, the first two halted suddenly and the four behind almost slipped and tipped the coffin over in the wet grass and mud.

"Herr Gennat!" one of the front men shouted. "Help!"

Gennat came at a run with Rath and Bohm and Ritter and many more following. Before they got close the mother of the dead man got up from her chair and looked in the open grave…and she screamed.

Soon they knew why. In the freshly dug grave was a dead body, a man in civilian clothing, on his back, partially buried, and it looked like his face and hands were badly damaged.

Gennat took command. "Return the coffin to the hearse. Bohm, take some men and make a corridor around the site. Fraulein Ritter see the family away, please. Rath, with me."

The mother shouted. "Who is it? Why is he there?"

"Come," said Ritter to her. "We will go back to the church. It is dry inside. We must let the detectives work."

"When can we bury our son?" the father asked as he took his upset wife away.

"Soon," Ritter told them. "Come, please."

The crowd was more than half police officers and Bohm soon had a ring of men around the scene. "Call the forensics team, Herr Bohm. And Herr Graf and his camera," Gennat commanded next and Bohm ran off to find a phone box.

The two gravediggers, standing by the pile of soil with their shovels, started to walk away. "Stop," Rath commanded them. They did as he said. "Wait here. We need to question you."

"Let us see what we have, Herr Rath."

They walked to he muddy edge and peered down. "A man," Rath said. "Middle aged maybe. Looks like he was buried in the dirt but the rain uncovered him some."

"A double burial," Gennat said. Rath looked at him in puzzlement. "I have seen this before. Make a body disappear, put it where no one would look for it. In a graveyard. Even better, under a coffin. Gone forever."

"Clever."

"Yes, but the rain undid their work. We must get closer." He turned to the grave diggers. "Do you have a ladder?"

One said yes and ran off to get the ladder. "We should wait for photos first," Rath said.

"Yes."

So they stood in the rain and looked around the ground for clues. Nothing of course. Many footprints in mud, but they would be the mourners and the pall bearers, the gravediggers, even their own.

The man came back with a short ladder. "So," Gennat said to them. "When did you dig this grave?"

"Yesterday afternoon," the older of the two said. "Finished by about five. Wasn't it?"

"Yes," his companion said. "Maybe five."

"See anyone around?" Rath asked. They both shook their heads.

Fraulein Ritter soon came back, with two umbrellas in hand. She handed one to Gennat. "Thank you." She tried to give the other to Rath but he told her to use it herself.

"Fraulein, do you have a pen and paper?" Gennat asked her.

"Of course, sir."

"Good. These two men. Get their names and addresses please."

Rath held the umbrella for her while she got the information. Then Gennat did an unpleasant duty.

Inside the church he found the family, the pall bearers, and more waiting. The father stood as he arrive. "Sir, what is happening?"

"I am afraid your son's grave is now a crime scene."

"God," said the mother and she crossed herself. "This is too much to bear."

"When can we bury him?" the father asked, his face full of grief.

"Not today," Gennat said and the mother wailed. "Tomorrow, I venture. Best if you go home. The coffin can remain here overnight. My apologies. Please excuse me."

Twenty minutes later Herr Graf and the crime scene team arrived. After Graf took his pictures, Rath put the ladder in the grave and climbed down, wearing a pair of high rubber boots the crime scene team thoughtfully brought.

Rath looked in the dead man's pockets that were visible and found nothing. He climbed up and then realized something.

"The grave is not very deep," Rath said. "They dumped the body and threw a few shovelfuls of dirt over him."

"Most likely," Gennat agreed. "And so, the body?"

"The hands are smashed, the face battered and bruise," Rath told them.

"We must take him out," Gennat said. "Samples first."

The crime scene men took soil samples in and around the grave and then got to work lifting the body out with the help of ropes the gravediggers used to lower coffins.

When the body was out, they looked through the rest of his clothing and found nothing. And then as they turned the body over and brushed away the dirt form his face, Fraulein Ritter gasped.

"Kardakov!"

"Are you sure?" Gennat asked.

Rath took out a folded up band poster from an inside coat pocket and unfolded. He peered at it, then the body and nodded. "She's right. It looks like Alexei Kardakov."

They shipped the body back to autopsy and then spent hours in the neighborhood asking for witnesses. The only clue they got was from an early morning street sweeper, who saw two men climb over the cemetery fence on their way out. Two men in suits, dressed well, not homeless living in the graveyard.

Back at the Red Castle Gennat gathered his teams at the long table. "Alexi Kardakov has surfaced," he began. "The body is fresh, killed last night perhaps. The question that remains unknown is where was he all this time. And of course who killed him."

"The hands," Rath began. "Smashed like the Russian in the canal."

Gennat looked at Bohm. "The same?" The Russian in the canal had been his case, one he had easily dismissed as part of Russian skullduggery in Berlin.

"Yes, Herr Councilor. The injuries appear similar. So perhaps his own people killed him."

"Perhaps," Gennat said. "Or it was done to look like they had. Now, we must wait for a cause of death. Meanwhile, we need to know where he has been and what he has been doing, who he has had contact with. So…yes, Fraulein Ritter?" She had raised a hand.

"We know he played in Herr Tretschkow's band, sir."

"Good. Herr Rath, you and Fraulein Ritter find this Tretschkow and question him. Go."

They got up and left. "As for the rest of you, any contacts in the Russian community?"

Czerwinski nodded. "I know a few clubs and bars where Russians hang out."

"You and Henning, go."

As soon as they were gone Bohm raised a point. "Herr Councilor, you have not named a lead detective for this case."

Gennat knew what he wanted. "Well, Herr Bohm, I think you already have a case. The dead man in the alley.'

"Going nowhere."

"Look harder. I will take this one on myself. It is time I got back in the saddle so to speak. So, everyone, go to work."

Bohm did not look satisfied but said nothing. They left him alone, and he went back into his office, sat, smoked his cigar, and he felt happy. Back in the saddle. A new case always excited him. So, Alexei Kardakov, who killed you? And why?

As he pondered this, Ulrich came into his office, a file folder in hand. "Herr Councilor, I have the preliminary ballistic reports on the train shooting."

"Tell me."

"The two Russians were killed by bullets from police registered Lugers, one by Officer Steiner, killed on the scene. The other Russian was shot and killed by Officer Fischer, who was wounded and is still in the hospital."

"And our men?"

"Both killed by the two dead Russians' pistols."

"The third Russian?"

"He did not fire his weapon."

Then came the question he had been dreading. "And the Polish woman?"

Ulrich swallowed and then spoke. "The bullet came from a police registered Luger."

"Fired by who?"

"Officer Fischer."

Gennat nodded. "Very well. Leave the report with me."

Ulrich placed the report on the table and left. Gennat picked it up and read the damaging evidence. A civilian accidentally killed by a policeman. Not good, not good at all. He had to speak to his boss.

He found Zorgiebel alone in his office. Gennat told him all he knew about the case.

Zorgiebel made a decision right away. "The Polish woman was killed by the Russians. Tell Ulrich and his people to speak to no one on this matter."

Gennat did not like it but understood. The city was still burning with anger over the events of the bloody May first riots when dozens of citizens had been shot and killed by police gone wild.

"What about the Russian we have in custody?" Gennat asked.

"He did not fire his weapon Ulrich said. Release him."

"Yes, sir."

He left the report with Zorgiebel and made his way downstairs. Back in his office he had another visitor, Colonel Wendt.

"Detective," Wendt said. "We need to the discuss the Russian you have in custody."

"He will be released shortly," Gennat said. They had learned nothing from him, the man barely speaking in the interview as Colonel Trochin did most of the talking.

"Oh," Wendt said in surprise. "The evidence against him is insufficient?"

"Yes. He did not fire his weapon." But Gennat decided that he could not be let off scott free. "But he will be charged with carrying an unregistered weapon in the city. He will pay a fine, and then he is free. You may inform the Russian Embassy they can collect him this afternoon."

"Very good." But Wendt did not leave.

"I am quite busy, Colonel."

"Yes. Herr Kardakov's case. Body in a grave. Perhaps you should have left him there."

"You know we could not do that."

"Of course not. What shall I tell the embassy about him?"

"He is in autopsy. We will release the body and a report when we are finished with it."

"Good." And then he was gone.

Gennat sat and smoked and pondered all that had happened in the last week. What he hoped would be an easy summer now looked like it was shaping up to be busier than he had ever expected.

But that was the nature of the job, the unexpected, and part of what made it so interesting and, dare he say, exciting. And so he put out his cigar and made his way downstairs to autopsy. First, find how Alexei Kardakov was killed. And then catch the killer.


End file.
